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THE CRYSTAL ROOD 































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“My Life Belongs to My Brother’’ 

See page 155 



THE 

CRYSTAL ROOD 


BY MRS. HOWARD GOULD, 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
EARL STETSON CRAWFORD/ 






NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY 
TORONTO : BELL & COCKBURN : MCMXIV 


■PZ.3 

■ G-131 

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Copyright, 1914, by 
JOHN LANE COMPANY 




JAN 20 1915 



©CI.A391407 ' 

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> 


TO 

THE MEMORY 
OF 

MY MOTHER 


















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FOREWORD 


“The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the 
teeth of the children are set on edge.” 

So ran a proverb of ancient Israel. The litera- 
ture of the world impresses upon us the everlast- 
ing truth — “The sins of the fathers are visited 
upon the children.” Little attention is paid to the 
converse of the proposition. Virtue and vice are 
alike transmissible. Oak trees beget oak trees, 
and mulberry bushes, mulberry bushes. Forces of 
good and evil so act and re-act that sometimes in 
one generation evil characteristics are dominant, 
and in a succeeding generation the ancient traits 
of virtue re-assert themselves. “Dominants 
sometimes become recessives, and recessives give 
way to dominants.” It is conceivable that there 
might be in man a virtue as strong and buoyant, as 
unconquerable and unsubmersible, as the physical 
characteristics of his race, like them remaining in- 
sistently dominant through all the ages. 

Blood will tell. 

KATHERINE CLEMMONS GOULD 
Boonsboro, Virginia, 

October, 1914. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK I 

PAGE 

Prorogue, Bravest of the Brave 15 

BOOK II 

CHAPTER 

I. The Dead Branch ..... 33 

II. The Living Oak 47 

III. The Lane of Death 59 

IV. The Trial 70 

V. Red and White 82 

VI. The Crystal Rood 94 

VII. The War Party 101 

VIII. The Gathering Storm .... no 

IX. The Meeting on the Isle . . . 118 

X. Baggataway 125 

XI. The Blood Call 133 

XII. Understanding 140 

XIII. Elan D’Eau 147 

XIV. The Island 157 


9 


10 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XV. The Silver Fox 168 

XVI. New Orleans 174 

XVII. Home 182 

XVIII. The Wood Thrush Call . . . 189 

XIX. The Warrior 196 

XX. The Decision 204 

XXI. The Swimmer in the Moonlight 209 

XXII. The Stowaway 215 

XXIII. The Question 223 

XXIV. The Answer 233 

XXV. The Storm 241 

XXVI. The Battle with Death . . . 251 

XXVII. The New Life 257 

XXVIII. “Land, Ho!” 269 

XXIX. The Hand and the Handker- 
chief 276 

XXX. An Indian on the Wall . . . 284 

XXXI. My Warrior 292 

XXXII. Eyes That Looked Back . . . 301 


1 •* 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

“My life belongs to my brother” 

Frontispiece 

FAC 

By these devices she made her fraud suc- 
cessful ...... 

“Good-by, good-by!” . . . . 


i PAGE 

54 

212 


‘You — you are ? . . . My Warrior” 300 


























BOOK I 






















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4 





PROLOGUE 


BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE 

Malek-el-Adel, the Sultan, whom the Moslems 
called “the Light of the Faith,” having bound 
himself by the beard of the Prophet, and Bald- 
win, Jerusalem’s king, by the cross on his sword, 
that neither would do violence to the other, his 
property, or the peace of his dominions, for one 
year and one day, Baldwin and seven of his 
nobles rode down to Acre, whence they took ship 
for Italy. Disembarking at Salerno, they pro- 
cured horses and proceeded to Rome. The Pope 
received them in the Lateran, descending one step 
on the dais as the flower of the chivalry of Chris- 
tendom advanced from among his knights and 
sank on one knee, his plumed casque bent low. 

“Arise, my son,” said the Pontiff in the rich 
and resonant voice before which so proud and bold 
a spirit as Barbarrosa was to tremble at a later 
day. The frail waxen hand that had rested on 
the arm of the chair described the sign of the 
cross. “May the blessing of our Savior rest on 
15 


1 6 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


thee and thine. In the name of the Father, Son 
and Holy Ghost!” 

Baldwin straightened the bent knee and faced 
the Pope. They were indeed contrasted types, 
these two men. Alexander of Siena was in the 
second year of his wonderful pontificate. There 
was little in his aspect to indicate the unflinching 
soul and bold purpose that were to carry him 
through nineteen years of bitter conflict and high 
achievement and bend the most daring and power- 
ful of worldly princes to his inflexible will. In the 
pure white of his pontifical raiment he seemed 
frail and delicate as a snow crystal. His pale, 
even brow and the tracery of his features were 
like a filmy lace of exquisite design veiling an in- 
ward light. 

It was plain that the churchman looked upon 
the steel-clad figure standing at the foot of his 
throne with more than a little interest and pleas- 
ure. Well it merited close attention. Baldwin 
was then in his thirty-second year, and Europe 
had been ringing with his fame since the second 
crusade when he, a stripling of sixteen, rode in 
the battle line with Conrad of Germany and Louis 
of France. Although his steel harness concealed 
the lines of his frame, it could not hide the splen- 
did vigor of the still youthful veteran. Arab 
suns had burned to a nut brown that portion of 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


i7 


his face visible under his raised visor, but the 
quick-gleaming eyes were the old Norse blue, and 
an auburn curl matted on his brow suggested as 
well the Northern origin of his race. He was 
garbed as beseemed his rank and reputation. His 
visor was rich in gold inlay as was his gorget, 
and flashing jewels were crusted thick on the hilt 
of the great two-handled blade that was belted to 
his waist and trailed out behind his golden spurs. 

“Lance of Christ, thou hast done well,” said 
Alexander, resting his hand again upon the arm 
of his chair. “What tidings do you bring me from 
the frontier? Is it well with the Holy Land?” 

“We hold our own,” the soldier answered grim- 
ly. “Our red cross still flies above Jerusalem and 
men yet give to me the title with which they 
mocked our Lord, the Redeemer.” 

Alexander’s eyes were shadowed. “Less the 
swords of the infidels than the greed and vanity 
of Christian princes have beset you,” he said, as 
he descended the steps and laid a friendly hand 
on the king’s shoulder. “But the ways of God are 
wonderful,” he added, his face brightening. 
“While the dastards waste their blood and their 
souls in selfish and brutal conflict among them- 
selves, Godfrey’s successor surpasses Godfrey’s 
deeds.” 

“Nay, burden me not with over-praise, Holy 


1 8 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

Father,’* protested Baldwin. “The King of Jeru- 
salem is gallantly served. Baldwin is proud less 
of his own prowess than of the good swords that 
strike with him for the cross.” 

“These gentlemen ?” The Pontiff’s glance 

swept over Baldwin’s shoulder to the seven knights 
clustered a few feet behind him. 

“Aye, they are of the bravest, Holy Father,” 
the king replied. 

“And who is bravest of all?” Pope Alexander 
asked, his eyes smiling. 

King Baldwin’s huge laugh rang out with sud- 
den clamor strange in that cloistered hall, and 
the clerics in their black robes gazed up from 
their parchments, startled as if some rude soldier 
had struck with the flat of his blade the golden 
altar bell. “Ho, gentles!” cried the monarch. 
“Answer his Holiness for me ! Who is the brav- 
est knight in all the world?” 

“Philip of Exeter!” came the instant chorus 
from half a dozen throats as six ringing blades 
leaped from their scabbards and met point to 
point above the helmet of the seventh knight of 
the party whose hands rose and fell in a sweeping 
gesture of protest and deprecation. 

“Holy Father, see’st thou how it stands,” 
laughed the king. “Save his own, there is no 
dissent. Philip — our Philip — is bravest of all.” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


J 9 


With a glance in which sudden surprise gave 
way to keen interest the Pope swept the protesting 
soldier. There was little to be seen of his face 
in the mailed hood he wore, and the Pope could 
gather only from the bulk of the suit of armor 
that it encased a stalwart frame. As the Pope 
advanced toward him, his hand upraised in bene- 
diction, all seven of the knights bent the knee, and 
Philip’s bowed face became altogether hidden. 
Alexander turned again to the monarch. 

“We would hear more of this Philip,” he said. 
“Meanwhile may we tempt thee to share with 
us the meagre evening repast of a poor priest. 
Our chamberlain will see to it that your brave 
lances suffer no hunger, indeed they shall gain 
rather than lose in that they dine not with the 
Pope. There are matters of grave moment to 
be discussed between us, King of Jerusalem.” 

In the plain closet of the Pope, with the great 
white crucifix for its only wall ornament, Alex- 
ander and Baldwin sat for hours discussing plans 
for the future security of the Christian kingdom 
in the Holy Land. And at last the Pope said: 

“This knight you call the bravest — what has 
he done that he should wear so proud a title?” 

King Baldwin’s eyes warmed with affection and 
he answered eagerly: 

“ ’Tis a tale we of Palestine love to tell, Holy 


20 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

Father. If you can spare the hours from 
rest ?” 

The Pope nodded. “With a good heart,” he 
said. 

The king raised his golden goblet. 

“Here,” he cried, “I pledge sweet and eternal 
rest to Jocelyn de Courtenay. True and unfor- 
sworn was he and he died a good man’s death.” 
He drained the goblet. 

“Jocelyn de Courtenay’s daughter,” he resumed, 
after a pause, “was the little maiden Isabelle, 
who came to our court at Jerusalem at the age 
of ten. Sweet bud was she then and sweetly 
she budded, until her seventeenth year found her 
in all her beauty and my knights dubbed her the 
rose of Syria. Many a lover, brave and gentle, 
sued her, but her bright spirit inclined to none, 
and not the most gallant might wear her favor 
as he rode in the lists of courtesy or the red field 
of battle. Yet there were two among my lances 
who seemed a little favored above the rest. Raoul 
de Chantillon, a brave boy upon whose bright 
spirit may our Lord have mercy, was one of these, 
and Philip of Exeter was the other. Between 
these two the contest seemed hardly fair, for 
Raoul was as bold in the bower as upon the field 
and Philip was ever the same as you have beheld 
this day, shy as a child under beauty’s glances 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


21 


and more afraid of a fresh-lipped girl than of 
Noureddin and all his armed array. Yet, among 
us men, was he the better loved perhaps, for the 
vows of his knighthood were ever sacred in his 
eyes and he has a gentle way and a lion’s courage. 
Wherever Cross and Crescent have clashed and 
our warcry, ‘Dieu li volt!’ hath risen with the In- 
fidel’s ‘Allah hu!’ these last six years, Philip’s 
sword hath carved Philip’s fame in the hearts of 
the Moslem host. Deadly must be his onset whom 
Noureddin’s hosts have named the crimson pesti- 
lence.” 

The Pope nodded. 

“Philip, who fought like a fire blast, loved 
timidly like a wood-maiden. If he and Raoul 
were with Isabelle in the hall Raoul would be 
on his knees beside the maiden’s spinnet, but Philip 
stood afar and looked his love, speaking it not. 

“The Easter will mark the second year since 
some business with the Sheik Beschara, grown too 
bold for Noureddin’s legiance and too insolent 
for my dignity, brought us riding all to the wil- 
derness east of Ascalon. In making my disposi- 
tions I left Raoul in command at Jerusalem. It 
was poor judgment in me ; the lad was too hot, too 
quick, too brave, too much in love. Scarce had 
we vanished from the sight of the city than my 
lady Isabelle began to play with that warm high 


22 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


heart. What caprice it was, what sudden longing 
for adventure, suited well enough to the spirit but 
ill to the sex of Jocelyn’s daughter, I do not 
know, but the pretty eyes brightened and the pretty 
lips pouted and we were all for Tyre, all to ride 
the road and greet our cousin Imogene, safe- 
castelled there, against the glad day of our Lord’s 
arising. Raoul denied, protested, shook his head, 
looked in her eyes — ah well, your Holiness wears 
a white shield against the shafts that fly from 
eyes such as Isabelle’s; Raoul wore no such shield. 
Guy de St. Treve was left in command of the 
garrison, and with twenty horsemen they sallied 
forth. 

“Two days to the north they were, faring 
easily on, when ill-fortune whelmed them over. 
Ben Ali and his brothers, three hundred strong, 
fell upon them. Peter the bow-legged, a tough 
old hammer-swinger of my guard, alone escaped 
that dire melee. Raoul died — peace be his guer- 
don and blessed his memory — and with him nine- 
teen stout men at arms upon whom God have 
mercy, sank lifeless under that whirl-blast of 
desert spears. So paid he for his folly, poor lad. 
It was long afterward that Peter, who had been 
left for dead with his comrades, made his way 
back to us, and from him we heard a tale of valor 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


23 

that makes a soldier’s blood leap — they died like 
men, your Holiness.” 

“And the maiden?” 

“Spared with her serving-woman for Ben Ali’s 
tent. Such black news for Philip of Exeter when, 
a day in our advance, he returned to the city 
where he dreamed his love lay safe, and lovely. 
Nor long he stayed with that fresh dagger of 
pain in his great heart. Two chargers he took, 
lest the weight of one rider might tire a single 
steed, and in the darkling eve he shot out from 
the Damascus gate, while frightened men and 
women marvelled at the swiftness of his flight 
until he vanished and left on the quiet air the 
fading echoes of the high thunder of hoof-beats. 

“The Sultan Malek is a mighty lord and lives 
in high estate. Fair is his city seat, Damascus, 
and well-walled, but it was a day of truce between 
us and but three Mamelukes stood guard at the 
open gate. Well might they shriek ‘Sathani !’ and 
raise their shields when they saw a dread ap- 
parition hurling out of the night. Thrice the 
sword of white flame rose and fell, and thrice 
the death shriek rang, and Philip thundered on. 
Straight as a clothyard shaft he flew until the 
wide gate of Noureddin’s palace received him 
in its flood of light, for the Sultan feasted with 
his nobles. Now he sprang from his steed, and 


24 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


strode on, his blade swinging like a flail beneath 
which fell the massed guard. Over the heads 
of the guards Malek saw the lightning flash of 
the great sword, as he sat in his hall, and he leaped 
to his feet with a cry. 

“ ‘How many?’ demanded he, his scimitar bare 
in his hand and his nostrils wide, for he too is a 
warrior. 

“ ‘But one,’ they answered him. 

“ ‘Then, in the name of the Prophet, give way!’ 
he commanded. ‘Will ye shame me in the eyes of 
an unbeliever?’ 

“The press parted and Philip strode to the 
dais. 

“ ‘Sultan,’ he said, ‘I am Philip of Exeter, 
knight of the cross.’ 

“ ‘Ha !’ exclaimed the Sultan, ‘you knock at 
my door with more vigor than courtesy, but with 
your blade in your hand you are welcome.’ 

“ ‘The maiden, Sultan !’ demanded Philip, with 
no waste of word. ‘Surrender her to me, and if 
her eyes meet not mine when we are face to face, 
though I cut a path through ten thousand to thy 
heart, thou diest the death.’ 

“ ‘Maiden?’ cried Noureddin, in amazement. 
‘What maiden, madman?’ 

“Like a flame Philip’s glance shot out from 
beneath his lowered visor and searched the Sul- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


*5 


tan’s soul. What it found there was truth. There 
was no guilt in that high turbaned face. Philip’s 
sword fell and he bent his crest. 

u ‘Listen, Emir,’ he said, ‘and mark well, for 
my words must be brief. I have come with the 
shedding of blood and done discourtesy to you 
in your hall. This was my need: the maiden Isa- 
belle, whom I love, was taken on the road by 
Moslem spears, and they told me the riders who 
carried her off were thine. I know now thou know- 
est naught of this; but find the lady I must, and 
with speed ere harm come to her. Now listen to 
the plea of a knight who has hitherto begged of no 
man, save only the Lord Jesus, who is God — nay 
frown not, so I believe and in good time shall 
offer my body in proof, to thee, or any other Mos- 
lem. But now I pray thee let me go hence on 
my quest. On the white honor of a knight, and 
by the cross I now kiss, I pledge thee that, save 
in this adventure which I must pursue, I shall 
hold myself prisoner of thine, and submit to thy 
will for the discourtesy I have presently done. At 
whatever time I shall have rescued the maid and 
cut the foul heart from her abductor I shall come 
to thee and hold out my hand for thy gyves. How 
speakest thou, Sultan?’ 

“Ah, your Holiness, our Lord lost a gallant 


2 6 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


soldier when the generous spirit of Noureddin 
got misplaced in a Moslem body. 

“ ‘Not alone shall you ride, spirit of fire,’ he 
cried, ‘but brother in arms to you in this affair 
shall Malek be. This is Ben Ali’s deed and though 
we scour the desert we shall take his head for 
it. Ho, there, my steed and mail! And see to 
it, Sidi Ibrihim, that a thousand horsemen are 
ready for the road within the hour. Sons of the 
desert, fleet as fire, we need for the work, so 
take you the Sheik Melchior’s squadron.’ 

“His lieutenant fled the hall to execute his com- 
mand and the Sultan laid his hand on Philip’s 
shoulder. 

“ ‘Knight,’ he said, ‘I have many a spear and 
they lack not daring but I envy Jerusalem’s king 
the clear high heart that shrinks not from levelling 
his lone lance against the guarded master of a 
hundred thousand swords. Now when did this 
befall?’ 

“ ‘But three days since, as well as I could learn.’ 

“ ‘Then we may yet be in time. Ben Ali will 
for his desert waste beyond Palmyra’s walls. 
There he fears no Christian pursuit and will travel 
at leisure. An Arab son of a swine is he who has 
troubled me too long. Lay aside your heavy ar- 
mor, knight, our need is speed when we hunt Ben 
Ali.’ 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


27 


“Philip stripped off his iron and joined Nour- 
eddin’s gathering Arabs clothed in leather. A 
true son of the wind was the mount Malek pro- 
vided, and the hour had not gone ere they were 
off, sweeping out like a wild snowstorm of the 
north in the white turbans and long white man- 
tles these fleet riders wear. They overtook the 
robber sheik in the desert, and as was meet, 
Philip cleft his bearded head from his shoulders. 
Thanks to the Mother of Saints, the maiden had 
escaped harm — she and her serving-woman were 
rescued scatheless! Noureddin and his hosts es- 
corted them toward our towers; we met them on 
the road. Then, among us all, Malek told me 
the story of the disturber of his feast, just as I 
have told it to your Holiness. Is he not brave, 
Successor of Peter?” 

It took the fierce storms of after years to prove 
how high a spirit glowed in Alexander’s deli- 
cate frame, but an earnest of it might be seen 
then in his gleaming eyes as he sprang to his feet. 

“Let us seek him!” he cried. 

Together they strode into the banquet hall 
where the knights sat feasting. They had doffed 
hauberk and casque, and the Pope might now see 
what manner of man was this Philip of Exeter. 
With his companions he had risen to his feet as 
the King and the Pope entered. A straight, proud 


28 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


body he had, and a face befitting. Level was his 
brow, frank his brown eyes, and silken the brown 
curls that clustered thick on his poll. The high 
bridged nose, the clean mouth, the firm chin, all 
proclaimed the spirit within. 

“Listen, dear son!” said the Pope as he paused 
before him and the young soldier sank on his 
knees. “It pleases Almighty God in his infinite 
wisdom to fill the veins of some of his creatures 
with blood of exceeding virtue, so that they are 
like unto golden chalices filled with priceless wine. 
When once he opens so pure a fount from the ce- 
lestial river of life, it flows on for all time, mani- 
festing itself in high deeds, in noble thoughts, in 
fruits of the spirit that bless this poor race of 
man. In thee, we who are of God’s Holy Church 
the present unworthy head on earth, recognize 
such a vessel of grace. Thou art a channel of the 
holy stream. So guard it from pollution while yet 
it is in thy trust that it may flow unsullied through 
thy race. Ever it will work its miraculous power 
in the same manner, nourishing noble thoughts, 
a well-spring of generous deeds. Though the gen- 
erations be countless, still will it show its virtue, 
still will it bear fruit worthy of its divine author. 
Bequeath it to thy son. And to the eldest there- 
of, bequeath also this as a sign and a token, so 
that it may descend ever to the eldest son of thy 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 29 

house and mark the flow of the pure and benef- 
icent stream.” 

Alexander, as he spoke, took from the bosom 
of his gown a silken cord at the end of which 
hung a gleaming crystal cut in the form of the 
cross, and he threw the looped cord over the 
bowed head. Like the rich peal of an organ his 
voice rang out: 

“Upon thee be the blessing of our Father, the 
Almighty God, and His Son, the gentle and brave 
Christ, our Savior, and the Holy Ghost, who com- 
missioned us through the Sainted Peter; upon 
thee, bravest of the brave and thy son and thy 
son’s son, forever 1” 






BOOK II 





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4 









CHAPTER I 


THE DEAD BRANCH 

Rising and falling, fitful, uncertain, the wood- 
fire burned before the tepee of Pontiac. A 
log crackled and a red flame danced high, its 
sudden flare of angry light bringing out of the 
darkness things strange and vague — the forest 
branches bending down, the open flap of the tent, 
and the two figures, seated cross-legged, one at 
each side of the fire. The flame danced its wild 
life out and fell and the forms of branch and 
gnarled trunk vanished back into the shadow, the 
red ember glow showing only the two seated fig- 
ures. One of them rose, glided into the deep 
gloom, and reappeared with an armful of fagots 
which were thrown on the red brands. Again 
the flames leaped up and the figure crouched down. 
It was the figure of an Indian woman. 

The second form was motionless as a stone. 
The blaze when brightest showed a high, hooked 
nose and a towering brow whose lofty effect was 
heightened by the shaven crown and the single 

33 


34 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


scalp lock holding the eagle feather of a chief. 
Beneath the brow gleamed bold, coal-black eyes. 
In the teeth of this stony man was the stem of a 
pipe and from his lips the smoke clouds came 
in slow, regular puffs. 

“Ugh!” grunted the chief at last. The glance 
of his crouching squaw was lifted for a second to 
his face, but it sank instantly to the ground. 

“There is a rocky hill that juts out into the 
big water, back there,” he said in a slow, keen 
voice that cut the gloom like a lash. “It rises, 
mighty, facing the gale and not afraid, and then — 
it ends. There is no more of it. It should be 
called Pontiac.” 

The woman stirred uneasily in her blanket. 

For a long minute the chief smoked silently. 
Then he spoke again. 

“Pontiac is a mighty war-chief. He is the king 
of the Ottawawas. His belt holds many scalps. 
His tent holds no sons.” 

Although the night was warm the woman shiv- 
ered. 

“Pontiac” in the voice was cold as ice and sharp 
as a razor edge — “Pontiac is a son of many 
chiefs, and has no son. He owns many fertile 
fields, but a barren squaw. He has a great name, 
but it must die with Pontiac. Pontiac is the 
father of six tribes, and of no son.” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


35 


The woman’s body bent forward until her face 
touched the ground. The chief slowly rose, stand- 
ing above the fire with his red blanket wrapped 
close round his towering form. He did not look 
at the crumpled squaw at his moccasined feet 
but out into the gloom. 

“Tomorrow with my young men I go on the 
hunt,” he said. “The rising sun will see us on 
the trail. The women shall take the canoes and 
go back up the Mohawk into the country of the 
Delawares and shall wait the return of the hunt- 
ing braves at the West end of Cayuga water, 
where the village of the Delawares shall shelter 
them.” 

He turned on his heel and strode into the tent. 
The squaw did not stir, but lay face down, while 
the red of the embers dulled and faded under the 
gathering ash. The night hours swept over her 
bowed head like the rushing, silent garments of 
the angel of death, and she stirred not. The edge 
of the coming day, pale gray, cold green, and 
faint far blue shot with pearl and crimson and 
gold, pushed up over the east and the camp stirred 
with life, but the squaw of Pontiac lay as might 
lie one whom the night spirit had touched in 
passing and left forever lifeless. Only when 
there was a stirring within her own tent did 
she shudder and lift her tired body. Quietly 


36 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


then she stood up and gathered fagots and ig- 
nited them. The other fires of the encampment 
were already crackling and the odor of cooking 
venison became noticeable on the morning air. 
Outanie listlessly hung her strips of deer meat 
from the forked sticks above the blaze she had 
kindled, and when the meat was broiled she 
placed it on a piece of bark and raked from the 
embers a few potatoes which she had roasted 
meanwhile. These, with a horn of water from 
the nearby stream, constituted the chief’s break- 
fast which he ate hurriedly and without a word 
to the slave who had prepared it. She watched 
him stand up when he had refreshed himself, and 
take his long rifle from the ground upon which 
he had laid it. The other braves were gathering 
and he stalked into the midst of them. Other 
squaws clustered around, chattering and gesticu- 
lating, but Outanie stood beside her dying fire, 
watching from afar. At last the ring of women 
folk broke and the braves fell into line behind 
Pontiac, who glided silently into the forest. With- 
in a minute they had all vanished and the women 
and children were left alone. There was a sud- 
den rush for the chief’s tepee and a hundred ques- 
tions were showered upon the squaw of Pontiac. 

“Where go we, Outanie?” they asked. “When 
come they back? Where is the meeting place?” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


37 


“You are to go westward,” answered Outanie, 
“until you come to the village of the Delawares 
by the side of Cayuga water. There will the 
hunters come when the hunting is over.” 

“And you? You, Outanie Dead-Branch?” 

Outanie answered quietly: 

“I go elsewhere on business of my lord. A few 
suns only shall I tarry, and then I shall join you 
at the village of the Delawares.” 

They turned from her for the work of dis- 
mantling the little camp and packing the long 
canoes. The tent poles came down, the raw- 
hide shelters were wrapped round them, and they 
were carried to the shore and stowed away in 
the bottom of the birchwood barks. Soon the 
whole party was embarked and the paddles be- 
gan to beat the wide stream against whose flow 
the rude flotilla made head. Outanie watched the 
gleaming blades as they dipped in the water or 
flashed in the sun — watched until the last of the 
canoes was lost in the distance and she was alone 
by the bank. There was a bitter smile on her 
full and sharply curved lips. Although no longer 
youthful* her figure was slender and strong and 
there was a prideful lift to the brow and quiver 
to the nostrils that showed the true beat of the 
blood of warriors flowing in her veins. She broke 
her stony pose at last and with quick skilful fin- 


38 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


gers dismantled her tent, and stowed it in her 
canoe. Before she stepped into the boat she faced 
the west, standing very still, her long shadow flung 
out before her by the slant of the morning sun- 
beams. Slowly and with eyes still fixed on the 
misty blue of the ribbon of sky that dipped down 
between the green wood banks to kiss the shining 
water, she stepped into the bark. Her hand 
reached for the paddle, and with a dexterous 
swing of the biside she shot her frail vessel out 
into the full downward flow of the stream. Then 
she rested, the paddle idle in her hand, while 
the Mohawk’s flow carried her east and south 
and ever farther and farther from the lands of 
her own people. 

Three days Outanie journeyed on the breast of 
the stream. Her rifle found her food among the 
banks, her fish-line too was put to use, for the 
squaw of Pontiac knew the ways of wood and 
stream. On the second day of her journey a 
canoe fleet of Mequas intercepted her boat, and 
their chief questioned her. 

“Where do you go, squaw?” he demanded. 

Outanie swept her hand toward the east. 

“With the river,” she said. 

The chief scowled. 

“What is your name and nation, woman?” he 
said sternly. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


39 

“Outanie Dead-Branch, a daughter of the Ot- 
tawawas.” 

“Where are your people ?” 

“Hunting.” 

“Ugh! But where?” 

“How should I know who am not with them.” 

“You talk high like a warrior, woman,” repri- 
manded the Mequa, a note of anger in his throat. 

During the colloquy Outanie had regarded him 
with a stony face. There were sullen fires in her 
eyes. She did not deign to reply to his rebuke. 

“Come,” he said. “What if we take you to 
be a squaw to one of our braves?” 

Her dull burning eyes turned from the speaker 
to his companions whom she examined one by 
one with deep scorn. 

“I have been squaw to a great chief,” she said. 
“Would you wife me to a woman?” 

The Mequa’s sinewy arm was uplifted and the 
tomahawk flashed above Outanie’s head. For the 
first time she smiled, looking up at her doom like 
a pleased child. But before the weapon could 
fall its sweep was arrested and the wrist of its 
possessor held in a restraining grip. A wrinkled 
and hideously painted Indian who had watched in- 
tently the face of the squaw had shot out his 
hand to stay the deadly hatchet. 

“Nay,” he said. “Do you not see that she is 


40 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


mad? She is one of Manitu’s witless ones and 
may not be slain. I have spoken.” 

He released the young chief’s wrist and gath- 
ered his blanket round him. The chief slowly let 
his war-hatchet fall to his side. Then without 
another word he picked up his paddle and drove 
his canoe up the river. Silently the others fol- 
lowed his example. The look of joy faded out of 
Outanie’s face, leaving only the bitter smile on 
her lips. She continued to float down with the 
tide'. 

At the close of the third day’s voyage, as the 
ripples of the river were dancing red and gold 
under the westering sun, the Ottawawa woman 
paddled her boat in close to the river bank, and 
gazed with surprise at the scene which greeted 
her eyes. The forest had been cleared for sev- 
eral acres and buildings far more substantial than 
any she had ever seen had been erected in the 
clearing. A palisade of logs five feet in height 
surrounded these structures. Her own people 
were not unaccustomed to the erection of stock- 
ades for the protection of their villages and 
Outanie rightly conjectured that this was a fort, 
but she marvelled at the size and strength of these 
homes. Then the truth dawned upon her. This 
must be a fort of the strange people of whom she 
had heard far back in the wilderness but had never 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


4i 


seen. This must be a pale-face settlement. She 
hauled her canoe out of the water and hid it 
among the bushes that grew plentifully on the 
bank. With a steady step she approached the 
gate in the palisade. Three young men stood at 
the gate. They were strangely clothed to the 
eyes of Outanie, and they spoke to her words 
which had no meaning in her ears. She guessed, 
however, that they asked who she was and whence 
she had come, so she pointed to the west and ut- 
tered the name of her tribe, “Ottawawa.” 

“What says the woman, John? You speak their 
gibberish?” said one of the white men, addressing 
another who stood leaning against the wall. 

“She is an Ottawawa,” the man answered. 
“Woman,” he asked in the tongue of the Dela- 
wares, “why are you so far from the lands of the 
Ottawawas? What does the woman of the Otta- 
wawas want among the pale-faces?” 

“I am Outanie Dead-Branch,” the squaw an- 
swered. “I am squaw of a chief, but have borne 
him no son. Therefore am I shamed among my 
own people, and I would dwell afar. I would 
dwell among the white people so that my lord 
may not see me more.” 

The woodsman translated to his companions. 
“It is a way they have,” he said with a shrug. 
“The poor wretch is an outcast. I would let 


42 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


her stay, master burgomaster. She is strong and 
may serve you as interpreter, and she will cost 
the settlement nothing, for these Indian women 
know how to find their own food.” 

Thus Outanie became attached to the settle- 
ment. As the hunter had declared, she was not 
a drain upon the frontier log camp, and she soon 
picked up enough English to make her useful as 
an interpreter. 

The forty families composing the little white 
community were, for the most part, Dutch, al- 
though there were among them some few Eng- 
lishmen and Frenchmen. These latter were the 
scouts and hunters; the Dutchmen and their fam- 
ilies traded with the Indians and cultivated the 
cleared fields. 

Summer went swiftly from the land. The for- 
est put on its autumn finery of russet and scarlet 
and gold. The winter came with sudden gusts 
of snow-laden gales and the fires smoked under 
many chimneys. By this time Outanie had become 
a familiar in the post. She proved apt in learning 
the household ways of her white hosts. And 
never suffered for lack of substantial shelter dur- 
ing the winter months. In the business affairs of 
the settlement, as well as in its household matters, 
she bore a useful part. When the snow lay deep 
on the floor of the forest and the ice thick and 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


43 


hard upon the surface of the water, the burgo- 
master of Amsterdam found this hardy, forest- 
bred woman a swift and reliable messenger who 
could track miles over the snow upon her snow- 
shoes, and carry correspondence between Am- 
sterdam and neighboring posts. 

Reluctantly, the winter withdrew at last into 
its northern fastnesses, taking its shackles of ice 
off the rushing waters of the Mohawk. Once 
more the farmers went out to plow the fields and 
the hunting parties who had wintered at Amster- 
dam prepared for their spring excursion into the 
wild. From one of these hunters Outanie received 
a trust on the eve of his departure. 

“Outanie,” he said, “this, my wife, shall bear 
me a babe. Be you at her side and nurse her 
and the child against my return. Then I shall 
give you beads and wampum.” 

The Indian woman’s eyes brightened for an in- 
stant, but there was no sign of deepened interest 
on her impassive features, nor was there a change 
in the low note of her voice as she answered: 

“They shall not hunger if Outanie can find 
food. They shall not die if Outanie can keep 
them alive. Warrior and hunter may go and 
fear not; Outanie will care for white squaw.” 

The woodsman smiled with satisfaction. He 
was less troubled in mind, faring forth into the 


44 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


forest, now that he knew this silent and competent 
woman would take his place at his wife’s side. 

The May floods were roaring through the 
Mohawk’s channels when a new soul came to 
Amsterdam. It was bought with its equivalent. 
Despite the skilful ministrations of Outanie, the 
wife of the hunter died on the night of her baby’s 
birth. The Indian woman bending over her saw 
the features that had been twisted in pain relax 
to that semblance of the peace that passeth all 
understanding. Quickly she put her brown hand 
on the white breast. Nothing fluttered beneath 
it. Swiftly she bent and laid her brown cheek 
against the red lips. No breath moistened the 
cheek. Then she stood upright and, for a long 
time, motionless as the dead woman before her, 
gazed down at the untroubled countenance. A 
thin, wailing cry startled her from her reverie. 
She swung on her moccasined heel and glanced 
at the child lying where she had placed it at its 
birth, on a rough crib at the other side of the 
room. A strange smile lighted up her features. 
She took the child in her arms and removed from 
its neck a small object which the dying mother 
had placed there. This she thrust into the bosom 
of her deerskin shirt. Wrapping the child in a 
blanket, she stepped swiftly and silently from the 
room and out into the night. The rude streets 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


45 


of the village were deserted and all the houses in 
darkness. The sky overhead was cloudless and 
moonless, and only the wan light of the stars 
showed the dim outlines of the settlement. 

Outanie knew there would be a guard at the 
gate, so she crept to the opposite side of the en- 
closure. As she crept close to the wall she heard 
the measured step of an approaching sentry. The 
soldier advanced steadily until he was directly op- 
posite the point where she was hidden. He went 
some steps beyond, then paused as if listening. 
A sound had reached his ears, but it was so thin, 
so faint, so short that he concluded that his fancy 
was playing him tricks and resumed his lonely 
promenade. 

Outanie, peering over the wall, waited until 
he had disappeared round a distant salient. Then 
she clambered over the logs and, with the white 
baby pressed close to her heart, broke into the 
swift Indian lope which soon carried her into the 
impenetrable shadow of the environing forest. 
Once in the woods’ recesses she paused to consider 
her future plan. Her canoe lay in its covert 
near the river bank, but she knew it would be 
impossible for her to make headway against the 
torrent. Consequently, she decided to abandon 
her boat. She procured from it, however, her 
rifle and a piece of board. With her hunting 


4 6 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


knife she cut a square of deerskin from her tent 
and binding it to the board, fashioned a rude 
conveyance for the child. This she strapped to 
her back, and having thus prepared herself, be- 
gan her long journey toward the far distant lands 
of the Ottawawas. 


CHAPTER II 


THE LIVING OAK 

It was the month of corn on the upper Alle- 
gheny, where lay the seat of Pontiac, chief of the 
Ottawawas, and head of the six tribes. The vil- 
lage was unusually large, for the Ottawawas were 
a powerful and numerous tribe. The stretch of 
country between the upper Allegheny and Lake 
Erie was then unbroken territory, as far as the 
white race was concerned. The nearest trading 
post of the pale-faces lay some miles to the south, 
where the confluent streams of the Allegheny and 
Monongahela merged into the mightier flow of the 
Ohio. 

The Indian village presented an animated scene 
on this morning in late summer time. The hunt- 
ing parties had come in after prosperous expedi- 
tions into the neighboring haunts of game. Deer 
meat was plentiful. The crops, too, had pros- 
pered and the people of Pontiac could look for- 
ward to a winter whose rigors need give them no 
dismay. 


47 


48 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Consequently the village was full of chattering 
squaws and romping, naked children, dancing and 
shouting in their rude games. Before the door 
of nearly every long house sat, or reclined full 
length upon the sod, a small group of braves. 
Of the latter, those who were awake puffed con- 
tentedly upon their long pipes. The others slept 
peacefully in the warm sunshine. 

In front of the great house of Pontiac the 
chief sat alone. A deep, vertical furrow cleft 
his brow, and his eyes were full of gloom. Al- 
though the stem of his pipe was clenched between 
his teeth, no smoke issued from his lips. For 
many minutes the ashes in the bowl had been 
cold. Some of the braves strolling by noticed 
the gloomy aspect of their chief and one of them 
slowly shook his head. 

“Ugh!” he grunted. “The heart of Pontiac is 
like a stone.” 

Another puffed silently a few seconds before 
he made reply: 

“The tent of the great chief is cold. He 
mourns the lost Outanie.” 

Even as they spoke there was a louder note in 
the outcrying of the children, and the braves 
glanced sharply in their direction. They saw a 
cluster of figures at the forest edge, which was 
rapidly growing larger as leaping boys and run- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


49 


ning squaws joined it. The men now stood, at- 
tentively surveying this excited group. It burst 
asunder at last, and there strode out of the heart 
of it a tall, lithe squaw, holding, uplifted in her 
hands, a naked papoose. 

With the women and children trailing behind 
her, wildly waving their arms and uttering shrill 
cries of excitement and wonder, the squaw made 
her way to the tent in front of which sat the 
silent chief. Before him she paused. Pontiac 
took the pipe from his set lips and glanced up at 
her. 

“Ugh!” he said. 

“Outanie comes back,” cried the woman, a high 
note of pride vibrating in her voice. “No longer 
Outanie, the Dead-Branch, but Outanie, the Liv- 
ing Oak, and the mother of a prince. Behold, 
great chief, the son of Pontiac!” 

She bent and placed the child upon the knees 
of the Indian. Pontiac looked up at her without 
change of expression. The only visible indication 
of what was passing within his soul was the fact 
that he puffed slowly twice upon his smokeless 
pipe before he spoke. 

“It is many moons,” he said at last, “since Out- 
anie sat by Pontiac’s fire.” 

Her body did not shrink from him. She held 


50 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


herself straight and proud and looked level into 
his eyes. 

“The great chief,” she said, “rebuked his 
squaw. The great chief greatly desired a son. 
He said nothing of a woman child. How was 
Outanie to know?” 

The child on Pontiac’s knees began to cry, and 
he took the little form into his sinewy fingers and 
thrust it up before her. She clasped it to her 
breast and its wailing ceased. 

It was beneath the dignity of a warrior to ques- 
tion his squaw, but Outanie knew that curiosity 
must be consuming the heart of the chief, so she 
went on. 

“Outanie said in her heart, ‘My lord desires 
a son. If there come to him a daughter of the 
Ottawawas the heart of Pontiac will not be proud, 
but bitter with grief. So I shall go apart from 
my own people until the child be born. If a 
woman child, then shall the river bear us away 
and the sight of Outanie shall not offend the eyes 
of Pontiac. If a man child, then shall Outanie 
return to her own people bearing in her arms as 
a precious gift a warrior and a prince of Pontiac’s 
line.’ So Outanie got into her canoe and sailed 
eastward and southward and so she came upon a 
village of the pale faces in the bend of the river 
bank. There was she sheltered through the snows, 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


5i 


and there among the white men was the red child 
born in the third moon of the freshets. Outa- 
nie’s strength was as nothing against the swollen 
river, so she came on foot through the forests. 
She will sit by Pontiac’s fire and reign in Pon- 
tiac’s long house. I have spoken.” 

Her thin features, her attenuated limbs, and 
the shreds of the deer-skin hunting habit, the 
tatters of her leggins and moccasins, all bore 
mute witness of the hardships she had undergone. 
No notice was taken of these, however. Pontiac 
merely bowed his head gravely as a sign that he 
was satisfied with the explanation she had given. 
Pressing the child to her heart she went into his 
tent. 

In her long journey from the banks of the Mo- 
hawk to the lands bordering on the Great Lakes, 
Outanie had indeed endured hardships, sur- 
mounted obstacles, and faced great perils, but the 
harder part of her task was before her. She 
must, year in and year out until her own life 
should end, keep living and natural this lie she 
had created. She must watch this developing 
child, careful to renew continually the turmeric 
stain she had prepared for its skin. She must 
look out for strange traits of character, and 
instill into the mind and spirit of the child the 
stern Indian virtues. 


52 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


There were deep anxieties and real dangers to 
be faced by Outanie. She knew that the punish- 
ment for her deception would be death and a dis- 
honored name among her people, should the 
truth ever be revealed; and there were so many 
ways in which it might be revealed. But few of 
these anxieties pressed upon her for the present. 
She was an Indian woman living in the day that 
was, and heeding little the promise of the mor- 
row. 

The child was called Rushing Water in the 
recollection of the Mohawk freshets. Under her 
care he grew in strength and body. She had pro- 
claimed that a miracle attended his birth, that 
the great spirit had come to her in a dream and 
warned her to practise certain rites over him with 
the rise of every sun, by virtue of which he fore- 
told that the child would be a mighty chief and 
a war leader of many nations. Under cover of 
the belief thus created, she repaired each morning 
to the forest to bathe the little body in the vege- 
table juice which she used to stain its skin. After 
the first year had gone by a new perplexity came 
upon her. The growing locks of the child showed 
a disposition to curl. She knew that the hair of 
all her people was straight. Part of her morn- 
ing’s obligation thereafter was to grease the child’s 
hair with bear’s fat in order to keep it from curl- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


53 


ing. By these devices she made her fraud suc- 
cessful and Rushing Water, gaining in stature and 
muscular strength with each succeeding year, as- 
sumed, as by right of birth, a leadership over the 
other Indian children. He was easily first in all 
their games requiring skill and strength. 

In these days another anxiety came upon Outa- 
nie. There were games at which Rushing Water 
revolted, although they were a source of great 
joy to his youthful companions. The plucking of 
living birds was one of these. While the other 
red children shrieked with delight, Rushing Water 
scowled and turned away his face. His first dis- 
grace came, however, in his twelfth year. The 
Ottawawas had gone on the warpath against one 
of the tribes of the Iroquois Republic. Their 
war party returned with several prisoners, and 
as these bound figures were dragged into the vil- 
lage all the squaws and children surrounded them, 
chattering with pleasure and excitement. Rush- 
ing Water, his eyes alight, ran with his com- 
panions to the forest edge and followed in the 
shouting rabble the three Seneca braves. 

The great council of the tribe was held that 
evening and the torture and death decreed. The 
next morning the three Indian prisoners met their 
fate. In order that the entertainment might be 
prolonged they suffered one by one. The first 


54 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Seneca bound to the stake regarded his tormentors 
with the stoical contempt of his race, and let 
the flames from the fagots lick up his limbs and 
body without a cry of pain. When the glazed 
eyeballs and drooping head announced that his 
agony was over, there was a cry of fierce satis- 
faction from the braves gathered around, mingled 
with the shriller ejaculations of the women and 
children. One little figure alone stood motion- 
less in that crowd of savage onlookers. One little 
face was sullen and scowling. One pair of eyes, 
among all those black eyes gleaming with satis- 
faction, was wide with childish horror. 

The second Seneca was of weaker fibre than 
the first. Although he made a brave effort to 
face his fiery fate unmoved, the final agony 
brought a low whimper from his lips like the 
whine of a dog with a broken back. It struck on 
the ears of his tormentors as a note of sweetest 
music. More wild and shrill even than the howl 
of delight which marked the death of his prede- 
cessor at the stake, was the yelp of the braves, 
and higher was the joyous shrieking of the squaws 
and children. All eyes were fixed upon the 
writhing figure bound to the stake, and none no- 
ticed little Rushing Water with his face buried in 
his hands. 

There was a scarlet cloud hung like a curtain 



By these devices she made her fraud successful 

























THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


55 


from the western portal through which the day 
god had retired, and in the far east a misty and 
remote star hung in the soft gray of the summer 
twilight, when they led forth the third of the 
doomed warriors. He was a magnificent speci- 
men of his race, slender, straight and strong as 
a sapling, wearing his eagle feather proudly and 
stepping to his doom with a gravity befitting his 
rank and reputation. As they led him to the 
stake and loosened the lariat to bind him, he 
looked out upon them with a high contempt. His 
lips opened and his voice came forth. 

“Dogs of the Lenape!” he addressed them. 

A howl of rage interrupted him and more than 
one brave poised his tomahawk. But Pontiac 
scowled at these impetuous members of his tribe 
and stilled the uproar with his lifted hand. 

“Let him speak,” he said sternly. “Shall the 
scolding of a Seneca woman enrage warriors.” 

“Dogs of the Lenape,” the Seneca began again, 
without even looking in the direction of the Otta- 
wawas’ chief, “are the Ottawawa men so fearful 
of death that they have to be bound to a stake? 
Do they drink from their mothers’ breasts the 
white poison that makes men’s souls afraid? 
Spare the good deer thongs; the Seneca can stand 
in the circle of flame.” 

So they did not bind him, and he stood with 


56 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


his back against the upright, gazing out upon 
them with serene eyes. 

Ne-te-wa, the medicine man of the Ottawa- 
was, advanced with his flaming pine knot and 
ignited the heap of fagots. The tongues of fire 
leaped up around the legs and loins of the Sen- 
eca. The circle of Ottawawas gathered around 
grew silent and searched his face for some sign 
of weakness, some indication of his suffering. 
There was none there. At last the impatience of 
the torturers broke the bonds of silence. 

“Do you not suffer, Seneca?” they asked. 
“Does not the fire feed upon you?” 

His one answer was to break into a low, proud 
chant full of the glorification of his own people 
and contempt for his tormentors. He said, while 
the flames gnawed their way into his flesh: 

“The Senecas are a brave people. 

They breed warriors and sagamores. 

Their women wait upon chiefs. 

Their tents are hung with the scalps of the Ot- 
tawawas. 

The Ottawawas are a race of sick men. 

They have no speech, they snarl like dogs. 

Their women are braver than their men.” 

Again the rage of the Ottawawas broke bounds, 
and again their voices drowned the death song 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


57 


of the Seneca. The captive chief began to laugh. 

“So,” he said, “the Ottawawas do not even 
know how to torture a captured enemy. Would 
you see how a Seneca can die? Then fill my pipe 
with tobacco and give it to me.” 

Pontiac, who had watched his victim with nar- 
rowing eyes, gave a short, sharp command to one 
of the young men. This buck picked up a pipe 
full of tobacco and thrust it into the hands of 
the Seneca. 

Reaching his bare hand into the blazing pile 
of fagots, the captive Indian grasped one of the 
red brands and setting the pipe in his mouth light- 
ed the tobacco and began to smoke. Then he 
stepped forward and seated himself, cross-legged, 
into the fire. From his lips there came forth an- 
other song. 

“In the land of the Senecas there are singing 
birds that sing true. 

In the land of the Ottawawas the men are sing- 
ing birds that lie. 

In the land of the Senecas the hearts of war- 
riors are of oak. 

In the land of the Ottawawas the hearts of 
warriors are weeds that turn to water when 
pressed.” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


58 

Pontiac strode forward. 

“Peace, Seneca!” he commanded. “Pontiac, 
chief of the Ottawawas, speaks. The Seneca is 
a brave warrior. Were he not a murderer of 
Pontiac’s people and spoiled by the fire, Pontiac 
would send him free to his own people. But he 
shall suffer no more. He is a warrior, and here 
is a warrior’s death.” 

As he spoke he swung his sinewy arm and 
drove the point of his tomahawk into the skull 
of his victim. 

Among the cries with which his people greeted 
this act of Indian clemency, there was one strange 
sound. It was the sound of a child sobbing. 


CHAPTER III 


THE LANE OF DEATH 

In the bight of one of the numerous windings 
of French Creek, Pontiac’s camp was pitched. 
The tepees had been erected in a clearing of ir- 
regular outline some three hundred yards in 
diameter on the crest of a slight eminence which 
had deflected the stream from its course. Heavy 
pines screened it from observation. The slope 
ran down from the site of the village on the north- 
erly side to an indentation in the river bank, which, 
with its heavy fringe of laurel, afforded an ex- 
cellent covert for the canoes of the band. On the 
opposite side a slight trail wound through the 
pines to a ford beyond which was a portage much 
used by the Ottawawas. Through this trail, as 
the sun was setting, there loped into the village 
three braves of Pontiac’s tribe, driving before 
them a slender Illinois whose arms were bound 
behind him at wrists and elbows with thongs of 
deerskin. The captive was a youth scarcely be- 
yond boyhood, but the three dried tufts hanging 

59 


6o 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


at his belt indicated that he had attained a war- 
rior’s rank. 

He was driven directly to the spot where Pon- 
tiac sat smoking, the curious women and children 
rushing from all directions with shrill cries of 
excitement, and the warriors slowly and with dig- 
nity gathering in to hear the story of his capture 
and learn the nature of his doom. Pontiac with- 
drew his pipe from his lips and looked up at the 
three braves. 

“What do my sons bring me out of the forest?” 
he asked. 

The oldest of the three hunters answered: 

“A tree-cat whom we found asleep,” he said. 

The old chief bent one contemptuous glance 
upon the young Illinois. 

“Tree-cats shouldn’t sleep in Pontiac’s empire,” 
he said. 

The eyes of the captive met those of the old 
chief without faltering. 

“These,” he said, with a glance at the grim 
trophies at his belt, “are flowers that the Illinois 
gathered in Pontiac’s empire. The Illinois war- 
rior has a liking for the scalps of Ottawawa dogs, 
so he came into Pontiac’s country for more.” 

“He has not paid for those he has obtained 
already,” said Pontiac. “His own scalp is too 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


6 1 


cheap a price, but as it is all he has Pontiac’s 
women shall have to take that from him.” 

The chief turned from the captive to the hunt- 
ers. 

“Let him be securely bound,” he said, “and 
kept under double guard. Let no meat be given 
him and no drink. Tomorrow we shall turn him 
over to the women and children.” 

A loud cry of delight rose from the assembled 
tribe. The Illinois was hurled into a rudely con- 
structed hut and Pontiac’s people dispersed, lit- 
tle groups gathering to discuss the entertainment 
promised for the morrow. 

The fate for which the Illinois had been re- 
served was the one most cunningly devised to try 
the fortitude of a warrior. Pontiac had decreed 
that he should run the “lane of death,” yet there 
was no sign of fear on the face of the captive, 
who sat on his haunches in the prison cabin. When 
the shadows fell the two bucks on guard in front 
of the hut lighted a fire, and the rising and falling 
flame threw its red light fitfully on that proud 
countenance. The night wore on but the eyelids 
of the captive never drooped, and his guards 
looking in from time to time could catch no sign 
of relaxation on the set features, and could only 
meet the defiant glare of the wide open eyes. 

Silence settled on the camp and the surround- 


62 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


ing forest. A slight breeze from the west sighed 
through the tree-tops and bore to the ears of 
the captive and the two sentinel Ottawawas the 
mournful hoot of an owl crying on some distant 
branch. The dark hours had worn on slowly 
and it was close to midnight when a new sound, 
slight as it was, caught the quick ear of the Illi- 
nois. He glanced quickly at the two braves in 
front of the hut. They sat like stone figures. Be- 
hind him a slight creaking sound continued. Slowly 
altering his position he glanced keenly at the wall 
of logs behind him. One of the timbers moved 
slowly up and then inward. For a few minutes 
the Illinois was uncertain that there was any mo- 
tion and that it was not the changing intensity 
of the firelight and the movement of shadows, 
due to its variations, that had deceived his sight; 
but at last with a slight crunching sound the log 
bore in. At the same time a soft sound came from 
in front of the hut. Swinging quickly on his 
haunches the Illinois faced the portal, and the 
guard, who had stood up and was now looking 
in the door, met only the glance of that expres- 
sionless face. 

In changing his position the Illinois had adroit- 
ly covered with his body the protruding log. With 
a few gruff words the Ottawawa turned and went 
back to his seat by the fire. A long period of ab- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


63 


solute quiet succeeded. The Illinois let his body 
recline as if seeking slumber. He had felt a slight 
touch on his shoulder. As he now faced the open- 
ing in the log there was pressed to his lips a 
gourd of water, held in a hand that had been 
thrust in through the opening. The captive leaned 
forward eagerly and drank to the last drop. The 
gourd was withdrawn. The parched throat of 
the Illinois had been relieved, and he listened 
intently for some further sound. All he heard 
was the faint swish of the breeze in the tree-tops 
and the mournful note of the distant owl, with 
an occasional murmur from the two figures seated 
by the fire in front of his cabin. 

At last there was another pressure on his arm 
and something was held up to his mouth. His 
keen sense of smell recognized the odor of dried 
deer meat. Eagerly the captive received the food, 
piece by piece. Finally his hunger was satisfied 
and the hand that fed him was withdrawn. 

At the door the warriors on guard replenished 
their fire which had burned low. Looking up the 
captive saw the new moon appear over a tall pine 
at the edge of the clearing. He watched it while 
it slowly passed across the restricted field of his 
vision. It had just vanished when an all but in- 
audible “Hist!” from behind attracted his atten- 
tion. As he turned and looked through the aper- 


6 4 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


ture he saw a face gazing in at him. A sudden, 
upward sweep of the fire outside illuminated it 
fully, and each feature seemed to burn itself into 
the memory of the Illinois. 

“Dream face,” the young warrior murmured to 
himself. 

Cautiously he shifted his position until his ear 
was at the opening, and then in a low, clear whis- 
per the words came to him: “Tomorrow you run 
the ‘lane of death.’ Let my friend listen. The 
tall pine at the edge of the clearing has new mark- 
ings, — one large one above a smaller one. From 
that tree the trail leads through the thicket. Fol- 
low it. There is a canoe at the ford.” 

The Illinois nodded his head to indicate that 
he understood. When he looked again for the 
face it had gone. The ear of the Illinois was 
tuned for the slightest sound but not a twig 
snapped. Whoever it was that had unexpectedly 
given him food and drink and comfort, dex- 
terously and noiselessly replaced the log in its 
former position and withdrew in utter silence. 

There was activity among the tepees at dawn. 
Preparations for the coming entertainment were 
soon under way. Pine torches were cut, switches 
and clubs were distributed among the small girls 
and boys, and the larger boys were armed with 
poles, seven or eight feet long, which had been 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


65 


sharpened to a point that was hardened in the 
flame. Still older boys were given tomahawks and 
knives, and carefully instructed in their use so that 
they might cut and tear but strike no vital spot, 
until the victim had reached the end of the lane. 
Then they were to fall upon him and make an 
end. 

The warriors would take no active part in the 
torture. Their duty would simply be to keep the 
victim in the lane and prevent his escape. 

The noon meal had been eaten when one of 
the braves assembled the women and children 
for the game. The borders of the path of torture 
were two lines of women and youngsters. They 
were so arranged that for the first hundred yards 
of the course groups of women and younger chil- 
dren alternated, the women holding pine torches 
and the children armed with sticks and clubs. 
Below that stood the older boys armed with their 
long pointed poles, and below them again stood 
the youths just below the warrior’s estate, with 
their knives and tomahawks. A double row df 
warriors with arms folded was lined outside the 
active participants and guarded each end of the 
course. 

Rushing Water had been assigned a stand with 
the older boys, although he was now only in his 
fourteenth year. Behind him, encroaching upon the 


66 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


clearing like a leader of the regimented trees, 
stood a tall pine bearing two fresh scars on its 
bark. 

When this arrangement had been perfected a 
fire was lighted and the women were directed to 
ignite their torches by thrusting them into the 
flame. They did this and resumed their places in 
the line. Then Pontiac raised his hand in signal 
and the two young warriors repaired to the prison 
hut, returning with the Illinois. 

He was a proud boyish figure as he stood at 
the head of the line, his arms still bound but 
his feet free. The spectators saw him raise his 
eyes and look over the tops of the trees as he 
noted the position of the sun in the heavens. Then 
they yelled with rage as he coolly and contemptu- 
ously swept his eye over the assembled tribe 0 A 
second of deep silence followed. Then Pontiac 
signalled again and a woman standing behind the 
Illinois thrust her burning torch in between his 
shoulder blades. At the same instant the warriors 
who held him by the arms, cut the thongs that 
bound his wrists and flung him forward. 

“Run, cat of the Illinois!” they said. 

Shrill shrieks rose from the squaws and chil- 
dren, and the double row of cruel eager faces bent 
forward. The warriors did not join in the wild 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 67 

outcry but stood with their arms folded in con- 
temptuous silence. 

The urging to speed was not needed. Like a 
human arrow shot from the bow string of de- 
moniacal cruelty, the young victim began his race 
of torture. His swift glance had picked out the 
“dream face” of the preceding night among the 
tormentors, and there was hope in his heart not- 
withstanding the burning brands that were thrust 
into his naked flesh, the birchen withes that cut 
into his shoulders, and the pointed spearlike poles 
that were thrust into his body. 

Shriek after shriek accompanied the blows 
rained upon him, but they came from the tor- 
mentors and not from the victim, who with set 
features and pressed lips, and limbs that only 
faltered now and again when a blow from a heavy 
club striking on his skull staggered him for an 
instant, continued his headlong course down that 
narrow pathway. 

He already could see at the end of it the older 
boys with their naked knives and uplifted toma- 
hawks, and behind them the dark figures of the 
massed warriors standing with folded arms. But 
his quick eye had picked out something else. On 
his left hand as he ran, there was one little gap 
in the line. Like a snake he turned as he reached 
it and sprang through. One of the guarding 


68 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


braves on the outside interposed, but the Illi- 
nois’ clenched fist landed on the throat of the 
Ottawawa with terrific force, and the latter meas- 
ured his length on the sod, while the fugitive 
sprang like a cat over his prostrate body and 
made straight for the notched pine at the edge of 
the clearing, which he had recognized by the 
glistening white of the fresh wood under the 
broken bark. 

Rushing Water, who stood near the point at 
which the young Illinois turned, had hurled his 
tomahawk at the head of the captive but he now 
turned in quick pursuit, and with his knife in his 
hand was the first to reach the mouth of the nar- 
row trail down which the Illinois had fled. There 
was a deeper note now in the uproar, for the war- 
riors had joined their hunting yelp to the hys- 
terical cries of the women and children. Close 
at the heels of Rushing Water came two of the 
most noted of the tribe’s younger warriors, — 
Wolf Tooth and Red Rattlesnake, and behind 
them streamed the whole band of warriors mad 
with an unsated blood thirst. For a minute Rush- 
ing Water kept close to the heels of the fleeing 
Illinois, but as they reached the narrowest part 
of the trail, the boy stumbled and fell and Wolf 
Tooth, tripping on his prostrate body, lurched 
headlong to the earth. Instantly half a dozen 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 69 

headlong warriors heaped themselves upon these 
two. 

The first to extract himself was young Wolf 
Tooth who, although his ankle had been sprained, 
resumed the pursuit. The accident had saved the 
fugitive, however. The fact that the Ottawawas 
had laid aside their rifles and were armed only 
with their tomahawks, gave him an added ad- 
vantage. He gained the ford unharmed, and turn- 
ing with a loud whoop of defiance shook his fist 
at his advancing pursuers. An instant later he 
had seized the paddle of the canoe and was sweep- 
ing down the stream, while the baffled Ottawawas 
screeched their impotent anger from the bank. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE TRIAL 

Uttering short guttural cries of angry disap- 
pointment, the Ottawawa warriors surged back to 
the brow of the hill where their chief sat await- 
ing their return. The look on their faces and 
the snarl in their voices apprised him that they 
had been unsuccessful. He wasted no word in 
question but his long arm snapped out toward 
the north, the index finger extended. 

“The boats, quick!” he commanded. “Let a 
dozen of the swiftest with the paddle make pur- 
suit. You, Wolf Tooth, shall lead!” 

The young warrior singled out hung his head. 

“Wolf Tooth is lamed,” he said. “He scarce 
can walk.” 

“Then let Rattlesnake take command,” said 
Pontiac, quickly. “But speed, my sons, speed!” 

In a flash the dozen braves had disappeared 
among the pines and soon four canoes were sweep- 
ing round the point in hot pursuit. Two days 
passed before the party returned. A scout re- 
70 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


7i 


ported their approach by way of the river, and, 
save for the chief, the whole tribe gathered at 
the ford, eager for news. 

Wolf Tooth, whose disability had gone, hailed 
the warriors as they came into view. They made 
no answer but paddling up to the ford drove the 
noses of their canoes on the bank. 

“He was not captured, then !” cried young Wolf 
Tooth, running forward to greet them. 

The warriors as they stepped out of the boats 
ignored his question, and with solemn faces and 
silent tongues, fell in behind Rattlesnake and pro- 
ceeded up the trail toward Pontiac’s tepee, the 
women and children and the curious warriors who 
had not taken part in the pursuit falling in be- 
hind. Something in the demeanor of the return- 
ing braves had impressed even the smallest chil- 
dren and it was a silent and wondering band that 
trailed along behind the twelve braves of Rattle- 
snake’s party. No word was said before the as- 
semblage paused in front of the chief, who sat 
at the door of his dwelling, his pipe in his mouth. 

The sun was low, and from the crimson curtains 
draped above its couch the red glow was reflected 
on the faces of the stern men who, with folded 
arms, stood confronting the great Ottawawa 
leader. Pontiac surveyed them calmly. 

“The Rattlesnake has no fresh scalp at his 


72 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


belt,” he said quietly, his cold voice clashing on 
the silence like the slither of a rapier blade on 
opposing steel. 

There was a deep intaking of breath that ran 
through the whole tribe, as they awaited the an- 
swer which everyone realized would be porten- 
tous. 

“No fresh scalp hangs at my belt,” the Rattle- 
snake answered sternly, “but my heart has a 
heavy word for the ears of Pontiac.” 

“Let the Rattlesnake speak,” said the chief. 

“The Illinois carries the skin of his skull un- 
broken because the Ottawawa camp holds a 
traitor,” said the young warrior. 

The hush that fell upon the tribe was tense, 
oppressive. Pontiac slowly raised his head and 
his glance travelled from face to face in the circle 
of warriors before him until it rested upon the 
countenance of Wolf Tooth. That young man, 
singled out for protracted scrutiny, stirred un- 
easily under the stern, cold gleam from his chief’s 
eyes. He cast a swift, sidelong glance at the ac- 
cusing warrior, and then, fixing his eyes again upon 
Pontiac, folded his arms, threw up his chin, and 
waited. 

“Can the Rattlesnake name the traitor?” the 
chief asked. “He stands before you,” responded 
the Rattlesnake immediately, as his left arm 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


73 

straightened and his finger pointed at Wolf Tooth. 
“Let the great chief behold the traitor!” 

All eyes turned on the accused. He looked at 
the Rattlesnake as if in amazement. 

“Who dares use such a word to me?” he hissed, 
his eyes blazing. 

“I!” answered the Rattlesnake sternly. “I ac* 
cuse !” 

“And I accuse!” echoed a warrior standing be- 
hind him. 

“And I accuse!” cried ten other voices in suc- 
cession. 

A wild cry swelling deep at first with the rage 
of the warriors and whining away in the wail of 
the woman, greeted this twelve-fold accusation. 
When there was silence again Pontiac said: 

“Wolf Tooth, the warrior, stands accused by 
twelve warriors of his tribe. There shall be coun- 
cil and trial. Let the accused be bound, and let 
the council assemble when the sun is midway in 
the west on the morrow.” 

He slowly rose from his seat and went into his 
tent. Wolf Tooth permitted himself to be bound 
and was thrust into the hut which had sheltered 
the Illinois. 

When the council fire was lighted on the fol- 
lowing afternoon, it was a grave band of warriors 
and sagamores who silently seated themselves 


74 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


around it. Pontiac sat in the place of honor, and 
at his side were the older men of the tribe. Within 
the circle stood two men, one of them the ac- 
cused, Wolf Tooth, the other the accuser, Rattle- 
snake. A totem pole had been set in front of 
the chief and before this, as a preliminary to 
the legal proceedings, a medicine man made in- 
cantation. When his voice was silent, Pontiac 
signed to Rattlesnake to speak. 

“From noon to noon,” said the young prose- 
cutor, “we followed the Illinois down the stream, 
then we found hidden in the laurel the canoe in 
which he had escaped. It had been provisioned 
for journey. It was the canoe of Wolf Tooth.” 

The speaker’s tone was low and dispassionate. 
At his announcement, a deep sigh rang through 
the assemblage. 

“Now let Gray Cloud speak,” he said. 

One of the dozen braves who had followed the 
Rattlesnake in the pursuit, cast off his blanket and 
stood up. 

“The landing place of the canoes is among the 
laurel at the north of the camp. The day before 
the Illinois warrior escaped Wolf Tooth moored 
his canoe at the ford at the end of the trail. It 
was evening and I saw him put the bark on the 
beach and come through the trees to the village. 
Gray Cloud has spoken.” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


75 


He sat down and wrapped his blanket around 
him. The Rattlesnake beckoned to another war- 
rior. The young brave indicated rose and point- 
ing to the scarred pine tree at the head of the 
trail, said: 

“The tree that shows where the path to the 
ford begins is twice broken in the bark. The 
hatchet of Wolf Tooth cut the bark. I saw him 
strike the tree with his tomahawk. I have 
spoken.” 

As this witness resumed his place in the circle, 
Rattlesnake again opened his lips. 

“Pontiac knows,” he said, “who were the 
guards in front of the prison house in which the 
Illinois was kept. Wolf Tooth was one of these. 
I was the other. During the night we heard a 
slight noise and Wolf Tooth went to the door 
and inquired. He returned and told me it was 
nothing but the shifting of the prisoner on the 
ground. Pontiac knows that Wolf Tooth was 
stationed at a point near where the captive broke 
from the line. All know that he was the first of 
the warriors to reach the head of the trail in pur- 
suit. All know that he fell and blocked the trail, 
thus giving the prisoner time to get to the beach. 
All know that he refused the leadership of the 
pursuing party. He walks all right now, chief of 
the Ottawawas ! What say you, my brothers of 


7 6 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


this household? An enemy of our tribe who has 
taken the scalps of our people is brought down to 
our village. He sleeps under the guard of one 
who speaks to him privately. He is allowed to 
escape through the weakness of a warrior of this 
tribe. He speeds straight for the hidden trail, 
guided by the scars on the pine which the same 
warrior had cut with his tomahawk. The pursuit 
is impeded by the same warrior. Bidden to hunt 
and to capture the same warrior pleads injury. 
At the foot of the trail the captive finds the canoe 
of this warrior, provisioned for his needs, which, 
contrary to the custom of our people, this same 
warrior had moored without cover. The name of 
this warrior is Wolf Tooth 1 Brothers, I demand 
judgment!” 

Rattlesnake paused, folded his arms on his 
broad chest, and waited. There was a stir among 
the seated warriors and a shifting of glances to 
the accused brave who had risen to his feet and 
now stood facing Pontiac. His was a striking and 
not unpleasing figure. His reputation as a war- 
rior was high, and the old sagamores had looked 
upon him as a brave of much promise. Something 
of the spirit that had won for him such high re- 
gard stiffened now his young frame and gave an 
upward tilt to his sharp chin. All bent forward 
eagerly for his words. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


77 


“Let Wolf Tooth speak!” said Pontiac gravely. 

“Wolf Tooth is no traitor,” began the accused. 
“Wolf Tooth is a warrior. He is not a child, he 
has six times uttered the scalp yell. One day Wolf 
Tooth went to hunt. He had seen the trail of a 
huge bear in the woods, but it was a trail three 
days old, and bent westward along the bank of 
the stream. So he stocked his canoe and set forth. 
But the bear had turned on his tracks and in the 
hour of the short shadows I met him. My shoot- 
ing stick spoke a lie, and I had to use knife and 
hatchet. It was a good fight, Great Chief — there 
are marks of it here and there.” 

He held out a scarred arm and, tearing away 
his shirt, revealed a healing wound on his breast. 
Pontiac nodded. 

“If the Rattlesnake lies not,” resumed the 
young brave, “he will say there was a dead bear in 
my boat.” 

“It is true,” admitted the accuser from his 
seat. 

“So I returned with my boat still provisioned,” 
Wolf Tooth proceeded. “I was wearied, and left 
the canoe at the ford, intending to unload it when 
I had rested. As I passed the chief pine, I 
thought how I had crushed in the skull of the 
bear with my tomahawk and wondered if it still 
held its edge. Twice I tried it on the tree bark. 


78 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


That night Pontiac commanded me to watch with 
Rattlesnake at the door of the prisoner. The 
next day we were making ready for the torture. 
I had not slept, Great Chief, I was weary with 
wounds: was it strange that I forgot my boat? 
When the Illinois broke the line Rushing Water 
led the pursuit. In the neck of the trail the boy 
fell; I was close behind and tripped on his body. 
When I regained my feet my ankle would not bear 
my weight. So I refused the leadership of the 
pursuing party because I knew the fugitive was 
swift, and the pursuers must be even more swift. 
This is not the voice of the singing bird, but the 
thing that is true, my brothers.” 

He folded his arms and waited judgment, his 
glance roving from one stern inscrutable face to 
another all round that grim circle. His chin sank 
on his chest. 

Pontiac, without rising, turned to the first figure 
at his left. 

“What says my brother?” he asked, gravely. 
“Speaks Wolf Tooth truth?” 

“He lies,” replied the Indian addressed, shortly. 

“What says my brother?” Pontiac repeated, 
turning to the next. 

“Wolf Tooth lies,” the man answered. 

So the poll proceeded according to the ancient 
tribal form. The warriors wasted no words ; their 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


79 


answers were short. Each of them in turn heard 
the chief’s question, “What says my brother?” and 
each of them answered it. Two voices only spoke 
for the accused. They were both young braves. 
One said: 

“Wolf Tooth slew the bear. Brave men do 
not lie.” 

The other answered simply: 

“The words of Wolf Tooth are true.” 

As the weight of the verdict against him be- 
came more and more apparent, the young war- 
rior’s head bent lower and lower. 

The shame put upon him seemed to bow him 
down like a heavy burden. Only when the last 
vote was given and a low moan broke from the 
women, did he look up. Pontiac had stood up 
to pronounce judgment and doom, and the ma- 
jesty of a great chief sat on his bold, high brow. 

“Wolf Tooth,” he thundered in a terrible voice, 
“the name men give you is well chosen. The fang 
of the wolf tears the wolf’s throat. You are 
condemned by your tribe. Make ready for the 
stake, for you die by the fire.” 

A wailing sound swept over the assembled tribe. 
It was cut short by a gasp of surprise. An agile, 
boyish figure had leaped over the shoulder of a 
sitting brave and advanced into the circle. Pon- 


8o 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


tiac in surprise looked down into the face of Rush- 
ing Water. 

“What means this?” he sternly demanded. “Is 
it thus a lad should break in upon a council?” 

“The tribe condemns unjustly, oh chief, my 
father!” he cried. “It was not Wolf Tooth who 
gave aid to the Illinois warrior.” 

“Ha!” exclaimed Pontiac. “Who, then?” 

“Rushing Water,” answered the lad. “When 
the doom of the Illinois was said, Manitu spoke 
in the heart of Rushing Water. The voice in his 
heart said, ‘Help the brave young warrior.’ Rush- 
ing Water obeyed. He had seen Wolf Tooth 
moor his canoe. He had seen the marks on the 
king pine’s coat. He pointed the way of escape 
to the captive, for so Manitu spoke in his heart.” 

The shock of the revelation held the tribe spell- 
bound. Pontiac shivered as if an icy wind had 
pierced to his marrow. His face was gray. A 
low cry of anger was breaking out from the tribe, 
but the uplifted hand of the chief stilled it. 

“Pontiac longed for a son,” he said in a dull, 
broken voice. “Manitu sent Rushing Water, the 
only issue of a chief. But justice shall be done. 
The traitor dies whoever he may be. In place of 
Wolf Tooth, Pontiac shall put his own heart in 
the flames. Bind the boy!” 

A shriek, loud, piercing, repeated, and rising, 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


more shrill, with each repetition, broke the silence 
as Outanie tore through the crowd and flung her 
arms round the boy. 

“You shall not!” she screamed, her features 
fierce and her eyes flaming. “Beware of the blast- 
ing curse of the Great Spirit if you lay a hand on 
his chosen one!” 

With his great clenched fist upraised, Pontiac 
advanced a step, but before he could strike, the 
voice of Icktoosh, the old medicine man, arrested 
his arm. 

“The squaw speaks truth, Pontiac!” he said. 
“Hold thy hand — the word of Manitu must be 
obeyed. The lad did but what he was bidden by 
the chief of the thunder clouds. Invoke not the 
anger of the Flaming Spear, King of the Otta- 
wawas !” 

A second Pontiac stood undecided; then he 
turned and strode to his tepee. With the excited 
chatter of women and the guttural exclamations 
of the braves, the assemblage broke up. Wolf 
Tooth bent down and gently stroked the shoulder 
of the boy, who lay sobbing on the heaving breast 
of Outanie. 


CHAPTER V 


RED AND WHITE 

Outanie’s report of the supernatural influences 
directing the destiny of her son, — a report often 
repeated and much exaggerated as the years went 
by — invested Rushing Water with a mysterious 
interest, not only to the people of his own tribe 
but to those of distant nations who had heard 
the marvelous tale. 

It served a double purpose for Outanie. In 
the first place it cloaked under the veil of a sacred 
ritual the physical treatment of her son whereby 
she kept his skin brown and his hair straight. 
The tumeric stain was easily obtained, the woods 
being full of this wild weed, whose distilled sap 
at the same time produced the color effect she de- 
sired, and, because of its vegetable nature, did 
not injure the skin to which it was applied. She 
prepared a great quantity of this stain, for she 
feared that there might come a time when it would 
be impossible for her to procure the wild growth 
that yielded it. 


82 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


83 


As the boy grew older his natural curiosity as 
to the reason for the mysterious rites she practised 
upon him, demanded an explanation from Outanie. 

“Outanie, mother/’ said the little fellow one 
morning, “why do you bathe me in the dark 
water?” 

The squaw hesitated a moment. 

“Listen, Rushing Water,” she said at last, “this 
is my reason: When you are grown to your full 
stature and go forth with braves to war, you are 
to be a great chieftain. There in the east” — she 
extended her right hand toward where the sun 
was reddening the horizon — “and there to the 
north” — and her left hand swept out toward the 
great lakes — “there dwell a strange people. Of 
two tribes they are. Their skin is not the skin 
of the red men but is like the white bark of the 
silver birch. They are hungry for land. Already 
they have taken the lands of the Lenape in the 
north and have driven many nations of the red 
people from the shores of the great waters. Un- 
less a great warrior arise to lead the red race 
against the white, they will rob us of our hunting 
grounds and leave no place on the earth for our 
home. The great spirit has chosen Rushing 
Water as the leader who is to save his own peo- 
ple. He said to Outanie that while Rushing 
Water is a child, Outanie shall bathe him daily 


8 4 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


in this dark liquor which is to make him strong 
in body and brave in heart. He has said that 
when Rushing Water grows into boyhood, he 
shall bathe himself as Outanie has bathed him, 
and shall anoint his head daily with the stained 
bear grease. If Rushing Water shall ever neglect 
to perform these rites, then his skin shall bleach 
to the likeness of the white people and his heart 
shall shrivel within him, and a great affliction of 
body shall come upon him and he shall die, for 
he shall have disobeyed the words of Manitu.” 

She showed him how to prepare the liquor 
and how to stain and apply the bear grease to his 
hair. 

But there was another way in which the super- 
stitious feeling of the Indians with respect to 
Rushing Water protected Outanie from the dis- 
covery of her great deception. From his infancy 
the boy was looked upon as one set apart for a 
great task. Traits of character strange in his 
people, which would have exposed him to pun- 
ishment and contempt otherwise, were regarded 
with more toleration and less wonder when they 
manifested themselves in the chosen of the In- 
dian’s God. The boy had been sternly repri- 
manded by his elders for an outbreak of tears 
occasioned by the killing of the Senecas, but soon 
his natural distaste for cruelty ceased to excite 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


85 


wonder and to provoke reprobation. Indeed, as 
his body lengthened and toughened, he showed 
signs of a temper to resent the one and the other. 
In all the athletic exercises he excelled the boys 
of the Ottawawa village. In the foot races he 
was as fleet as the wind, and none other could 
match him. He soon became so strong and agile 
a wrestler that when he was fifteen, few among 
the braves of his tribe ventured to try conclusions 
with him. His eye was steady and keen, his aim 
true, his skill with the tomahawk or javelin amaz- 
ing. The thrust of his paddle drove his canoe 
with a speed not excelled by that of any of the 
Indians. 

If in woodcraft and their own games and oc- 
cupations Rushing Water was thoroughly an In- 
dian, he was in other respects a prodigy and a 
wonder among the wild people. He had none of 
the taciturnity of his companions, but spoke his 
mind with the greatest freedom. Instead of the 
characteristic grunt of satisfaction of the Otta- 
wawa brave, his laughter rang out in the forest 
free as a bird and merry as a peal of bells. He 
was passionately devoted to Outanie, whose labors 
he lightened at every opportunity. If the squaw, 
now growing aged, were grinding the corn, Rush- 
ing Water would fling away from the other boys 
engaged in their play, dispossess his mother with 


86 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


rough affection from her seat in front of the long 
house, and forcibly take from her the grinding 
stones. If she went forth into the woods to gather 
dried branches for the fire, he met her on the path 
and took from her shoulders the heavy bundle of 
fagots. 

His first performance of this kind which at- 
tracted the attention of his companions drew forth 
from them a howl of derision. They gathered 
around him to watch him grind the corn. At last 
the sight of the youth engaged in this degrading 
occupation excited them to taunts. The boldest 
of them began to cry out upon him. 

“Squaw girl,” said one, “you shall not have a 
rifle but shall sit with the women when the men 
go forth to war.” 

As the boy worked steadily on others were 
emboldened to follow the example of the first 
of his tormenters. At last a cold and dangerous 
gleam came into the dark brown eyes of Rush- 
ing Water and slowly and deliberately he laid 
down his grinding stones. Then with the spring 
of a tiger he flung himself at the throat of the 
oldest of those who surrounded him. This lad, 
a young giant of seventeen, struggled for a sec- 
ond in the grasp of the young chief, but Rush- 
ing Water bore him to the ground and pounded 
his head against the sod until he was insensible. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


87 


Then he stood up glaring at the host of them. 

“Rushing Water is a squaw?” he exclaimed. 
“Well, who wants to come to the squaw’s em- 
brace? You, War Eagle?” He pointed a threat- 
ening finger at one of his companions. “You, 
Gray Hawk?” His quick-gleaming eye rested 
upon another. 

The boys shrank back from his furious face. 
Rushing Water waited a few minutes. His first 
victim slowly recovered consciousness and writhed 
away like a snake. Rushing Water resumed his 
seat on the ground in front of the long house and 
calmly began to grind the corn. 

After that no one called him squaw girl, nor 
was any remark passed in his hearing upon his 
strange inclination to perform servile work for 
his mother. 

Another trait strange in the character of the 
Indian was his insatiable curiosity. He asked 
questions continually. Pontiac who had watched 
his growth with proud affection but with a strange 
uneasiness, taught him all the legends of his peo- 
ple and answered his questions as to their origin 
and history from the wealth of tradition which 
was stored in the old warrior’s brain. One day 
as the chief sat before his tent in the sunshine, 
Rushing Water appeared before him suddenly. 


88 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“Father,” he exclaimed, “I am tired of the 
bow and arrow, I want a rifle.” 

The chief surveyed him thoughtfully. 

“Ugh!” he said at last. “Rifles cost many 
furs. They are not the limbs of trees that may 
be cut in the forest. When I was a lad all our 
people fought with bows and arrows.” 

“But not now,” answered the boy. “Now the 
braves of the Ottawawas carry rifles.” 

“Ugh!” said Pontiac. “The shooting stick is 
the weapon of the pale-faces. The Ottawawas 
bought it from the pale-faces because it is a better 
weapon than the bow. But rifles, my son, are for 
braves.” 

Rushing Water drew himself up to his full 
height, and although he was then in his seven- 
teenth summer, he had all a man’s stature. 

“It is unbecoming,” he said, “for a young man 
to boast before his elders, but father” — and his 
voice quickened and his eyes gleamed — “is there 
a brave of the Ottawawas who can travel farther 
in a day or drive the canoe faster or farther than 
Pontiac’s son?” 

A slow smile spread gradually over the face of 
the old warrior. 

“Ugh!” he exclaimed. “Rushing Water shall 
have his shooting stick.” 

Impatiently Rushing Water waited the day 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


when his father’s promise should be fulfilled. 
The woods had put off the festival splendor of 
their autumnal coloring, and stood bare and bleak 
and brown, awaiting the onset of the rushing north 
wind like warriors stripped for desperate battle, 
when a band of traders of the tribe brought back 
with them from the trading post of the French, 
the long expected gift. Pontiac received the way- 
farers at the door of his long house and they 
gravely laid before him the fruit of their enter- 
prise. From the stock of firearms the chief se- 
lected the longest barrel. He threw the stock 
to his shoulder and ran his keen black eye along 
the leveled piece. Then he laid the weapon on 
the ground and making a sign to the others to be 
seated round his fire, entered into serious council 
with them. Rushing Water, burning with impa- 
tience, feasted his eyes upon the rifle, as he stood 
some distance off, but his quick ears caught the 
conversation and he listened eagerly. Pontiac’s 
questions were short and to the point, and his 
scouts answered him tersely, but clearly. 

“Saw you my great brother, the chief of the 
French?” Pontiac asked. 

The warriors nodded. 

“What was the word on his lips?” 

The oldest of the interrogated party bent for- 
ward on his hips. 


9 o 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


‘‘Chief,” he answered, “the white warrior 
spoke true words to us for the ear of Pontiac. 
Between the pale-face of the north and the pale- 
face of the south, the war-hatchet hath been 
raised. The shooting sticks of the white people 
will speak to one another with their tongues of 
fire.” 

“Ugh !” grunted Pontiac, and for a few seconds 
he pulled thoughtfully at the long stem of his 
pipe. At last the other spoke again. He was 
Strong Bear, a warrior only second in authority 
to Pontiac. 

“This word the white chief spoke to me for the 
ears of Pontiac,” he said. “The great father of 
the French holds Pontiac dear, like a brother. I 
am a great chief but he is the greatest chief in 
the world. The flight of the eagle is far. The 
domain of the great father of the French is as a 
thousand flights of the eagle. His children are 
as the trees of the forest which no man can count. 
Through me he speaks to Pontiac, the great chief 
of the Ottawawas. He says let there be peace 
and love between the white king and his brother 
the red king. The white foes of the French are 
the deadly foes of the red men. Where are the 
Connecticuts? Ask the scattered remnants of the 
red nations who once dwelt by the sea what has 
become of their hunting grounds. Have not the 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


9i 


English driven them away? Where the English* 
settlements are can the Indian live? Yet see, my 
red brother, how it is not the same with the 
French. We would trade honestly with the red 
man and not cheat him. We would buy his furs, 
which are precious to us, with shooting sticks that 
make him mighty in the hunt and in war, with 
goods of great value. See with your own eyes! 
Is it not true that the Indians may hunt their game 
under the very walls of the forts of the French? 
Then let the great chief of the Ottawawas make 
war with the French against our enemy, the Eng- 
lish ! This was the word of the French chief 
for the ears of Pontiac.” 

Strong Bear, having spoken, sat back and 
smoked stolidly. During his speech there had 
joined the party an aged member of the tribe. 
The young warriors had treated him with great 
respect, making room for him at Pontiac’s side. 
To him the chief now turned. 

“Sagamore,” he said, “you have heard. The 
wisdom of years is in you. Speak to my young 
men.” 

The old man took his pipe from his lips. 

“Men of the Ottawawas, listen to my words,” 
he said slowly and with great gravity. “I am 
long at the council fire and have listened to the 
words of many wise men. The French chief is not 


92 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


a singing bird, there is much truth in his words. 
The French are better friends of the Indian than 
are the English. But mark this. Long ago there 
was a chief among .the Leni-Lenape, who was a 
mighty warrior. But he dreamed of himself as 
so much greater than he was that he angered 
Manitu, and Manitu stole his brains from him, 
so that he imagined vain things. For he said, ‘I 
am so mighty that I am greater than Manitu, I 
can make the clouds to gather and pour forth 
rain, I can shoot the crooked arrows of fire across 
the heavens, I can make the rivers to rush and 
the darkened sky to speak in crashes that deafen 
men.’ But a sagamore said to him, ‘There is that 
you cannot do.’ And he answered and said, ‘What 
is it?’ And the sagamore took two pebbles from 
the beach and handed them to him and said, ‘You 
cannot put these two pebbles at the same time in 
the same place.’ French or English, the white 
man is one thing and the red man is another, and 
the two cannot dwell at the same time in the same 
place. Therefore, I say, let the red man stand 
aside while the French and the English talk to 
each other with fire, so that they may wither each 
other, and the Indian may have his hunting 
grounds for himself. I have spoken.” 

The men at the council fire sat thoughtful and 
silent. At last Pontiac nodded his head. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


93 


“The words of Ick-toosh, the Serpent, are 
words of wisdom,” he said. “It shall be as the 
sagamore counsels.” 

The men stood up and sauntered off in dif- 
ferent directions. Rushing Water waited until 
they had departed before he presented himself. 

“Father,” he said, holding out his hands. 

The chief bent down and picked up the new 
rifle from the ground. 

“Take it,” he said, thrusting it into the out- 
stretched hands. “Use it like a warrior.” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

The short twilight was thickening rapidly be- 
fore the daylight failed. Gray clouds in heavy 
banks swept down from the north and overspread 
the sky. The freshening gale raged through the 
bare branches of the forest in short, fierce gusts, 
bitter with the arctic cold of the wilderness be- 
yond the lakes. 

Rushing Water stood where Pontiac had left 
him, looking with shining eyes at the long barreled 
rifle of French manufacture he held in his hands. 
Lifting the deer skin curtain that served as a 
door for the long house, he entered the building. 

“Outanie, mother,” he cried joyously. “See! 
Rushing Water is a warrior. See his shooting 
stick.” 

On a couch of dried branches set close by the 
fire in the center stall, a figure stirred. 

“Yes, yes, my son,” Outanie said, raising her 
head. 

Something in the tone of her voice chilled the 

94 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


95 

joy in the boy’s heart. He dropped his rifle 
and knelt beside her. 

“Outanie, mother,” he asked anxiously, “what 
is the matter?” 

The squaw laid her thin wrinkled hand affec- 
tionately upon the sinewy hand of the youth. 

“Kneel by me and hold my hand, my son,” 
she said, “for Outanie has reached the shore of 
the unknown country. Her mother calls her. 
Listen !” 

She leaned upon her elbow, her ears intent. 
The wind was howling, ever more fiercely. 

“They call Outanie,” she whispered. “All her 
people who have gone to the happy hunting 
ground, they call Outanie.” 

“No! But let me call Ick-Toosh. He will 
make medicine,” cried the boy. “Mother you 
must stay! You must not go!” 

She smiled up at him weakly, and the clasp 
of her hand on his tightened slightly. 

“The Serpent can make no medicine for Outa- 
nie,” she said. “Outanie is tired here,” — and she 
placed her free hand over her heart. 

Another raging gust tore through the forest 
and shook the frail cabin. 

“Soon, soon!” murmured the squaw. Then in 
a stronger voice she said: “Listen, Rushing 
Water, for these are the last words of Outanie. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


9 6 

Canst see through the smoke hole in the roof the 
red flashes of light that encrimson the gray of the 
storm? That is Manitu’s torch which he lights 
when the heavens grow dark. Listen! Do you 
remember what I told you of the dark liquor?” 

The boy nodded. 

“Then ever remember, for when Rushing 
Water fails in this, death, the demon, shall come 
upon him and the evil spirit devour him. One 
more charm have I for Rushing Water.” 

She tore open the bosom of her hunting shirt, 
and raising her head lifted over it a circlet made 
of rawhide. Hanging from this was an object 
that glistened in the light of the fire. With an 
effort the woman sat up on the couch and slipped 
the rawhide thong around the boy’s neck. In 
the glow of the fire a crystal cross gleamed redly 
upon her blanket. She fell back on the couch, 
breathing heavily. For some minutes she closed 
her eyes. When she opened them again she re- 
sumed, but her voice was very low and weak. 

“It is,” she whispered, — the lad bending his 
head close to catch the words, — “the badge of 
Manitu’s warrior. It is the totem of the great 
spirit. Wear it always, but show it to no red 
man until you are chief of the Ottawawas and 
the king over the nations.” 

Again there was silence in the long house. But 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


97 


outside, wilder and deeper swelled the roar of the 
storm. The snow was falling now; great gray 
clouds of it that seemed to press down upon the af- 
flicted earth and eddied in a devil’s dance when 
the sky was lighted up with the pale rose and 
wan blue-white gleams of the aurora borealis. 
The rude walls of the long house trembled under 
every blow of the furious wind. 

“Rushing Water!” the voice was very low but 
the boy heard it. 

“Yes, Outanie, mother,” he whispered, bend- 
ing his face close. 

“Listen!” said that low strange voice. “Hear 
it afar off! Hear it coming! ' When it comes 
the soul of Outanie shall ride. It is closer — now. 
It — comes — Rushing — W ater — I ” 

With a crash and a roar the wild wave of 
storm burst shrieking upon the cabin and then 
swept on. 

There was a little tremor in the hand clasped 
in those of Rushing Water. He waited for the 
voice again, but it did not come. The hand grew 
icy cold in his. He pressed his ear to his mother’s 
side, but no heartbeat troubled her breast. 

Kneeling beside the couch he pressed the cold 
hand to his forehead. One great sob shook his 
frame. Around the cabin the shrieking of the 
wind rose and fell. Once the blast seemed to 


9 8 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


pierce the building, fanning for an instant into 
high flame the embers in the center of the long 
house, but Rushing Water neither felt the chill 
of the entering wind nor noted the red glare of 
the rising fire. He knelt with his head bent over 
the dead hand, with as little sign of life as the 
figure stretched upon the couch. 

Behind that sudden gust that had entered the 
interior of the building glided Pontiac with the 
silent tread of his people. His blanket was white 
with the clustered snow flakes. His quick eyes 
in that high glare of light that passed so suddenly, 
took in the scene it illuminated. Folding his 
arms across his deep chest he gazed down at the 
dead woman and the kneeling boy. He uttered 
no word and gave no sign, except that the points of 
his jaws stood out hard as granite with the pres- 
sure of his set teeth. The heat of the fire melted 
the snow on his blanket, and little globes of water 
dropping from the garment took on in the glow of 
the embers the aspect of tiny drops of blood. 

After many minutes the kneeling figure shiv- 
ered. Rushing Water released the dead hand 
held in his and stood erect. Then, for the first 
time, he noticed that Pontiac was present. 

“Father,” said the boy, his voice rough and 
hard as a piece of stone, “Outanie sleeps.” 

“Yes,” answered the chief, and his voice was 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


99 


like the echo of the voice of Rushing Water, 
“Outanie sleeps. She has had the heart pain these 
many moons, my son, although she never told you. 
Outanie shall wake no more.” 

For a pace they stood silently regarding the 
dead woman. Then Pontiac extended his hand 
and laid it upon the shoulder of the younger man. 

“Come, my son,” he said, in the same rough 
hard voice, “Come into the storm.” 

They walked to the end of the short corridor, 
unfastened its rawhide curtain, and stepped out 
into the fury of the blast. There they stood to- 
gether facing the storm, pelted by the snow flakes, 
lashed by the gale. At last a deep groan seemed 
to rend the body of the chief, and his great voice 
was full of passionate appeal as he cried out into 
the storm: 

“Oh, Manitu, mighty spirit! Oh, Manitu, 
mighty spirit! Make soft tonight the couch on 
which the soul of Outanie rests. Make sweet 
the corn in her mouth, and joyous the songs of 
birds in her ears. Make peaceful her rest. Oh, 
Manitu !” 

He had bent forward eagerly as he uttered his 
prayer. But now he straightened his form and 
his face grew stern. 

“I wish,” he said in a voice that was utterly 
changed, a voice that was low, tortured, tense, 


100 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“that the enemies of my people were massed 
before me. I wish that my war-hatchet were 
swinging like the flail of the storm, and that the 
cries of my enemies rose like the shriek of the 
wind. My eyes are thirsty for the sight of red 
skulls. My soul cries out for vengeance, for my 
heart is hurt.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE WAR PARTY 

Over the drifted snow, traveling swiftly on 
his snow shoes, there came in the first light of 
the morning to the village of the Ottawawas a 
courier, whose call found a fierce echo in the 
pain-maddened heart of Pontiac. He was a tall 
Huron. He had set out in all the glory of his 
war-paint, but the snow swept into his face and 
the sweat of his struggle through the storm had 
made the pigment run in streaks so that his face 
was hideous as he stood before the chief. 

“The Red Hawk has a fire word for the ears 
of Pontiac, from the mouth of the Honnondio,” 
he said, using the word by which the Indians of 
the lake regions designated the French Governor. 

“Let it come to my ears,” commanded Pontiac. 

“The white chief says to Pontiac,” the Huron 
answered, “ ‘The English come up from the south 
to take the strong house where the waters meet. 
They have many warriors — more than Honnondio 
can spare for its defense. Pontiac is a wise chief. 


IOI 


102 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


He knows the English are the enemies of the 
red man. He knows the French are the friends 
of the Ottawawa nation. Honnondio therefore 
begs the war-tomahawk of his red brother. This 
is his speech and this belt speaks for him.’ ” 

As he concluded the Huron placed in Pontiac’s 
hand the broad belt of wampum which was the 
French governor’s gift. 

“Huron, you come to me in good time,” re- 
plied Pontiac, a grim smile playing over his lips. 
“There shall be council and the chiefs shall hear 
the words of Honnondio.” 

At Pontiac’s bidding a great fire was built in 
the snow and, wrapped in their furs and blankets, 
the leaders of the allied nations seated themselves 
around the blazing logs. Pontiac, as the head of 
the confederation, had the seat of honor and be- 
side him sat the aged Sagamore, Ick-toosh. In 
the grim circle were Strong Bear, the Chippewa 
Chief; Tegachook, the Miami Chief; Wassebo, 
the celebrated leader of the Wyandots; Black 
Beaver, chief of the Pottowatomies ; Red Bird, 
of the Mississagas; Torn Face, a great Shawnee 
warrior; Powato, of the Ottagamies, and Show- 
greel, of the Winnebagoes, as well as other noted 
sub-chiefs. The pipes were lighted and the coun- 
cil began. Pontiac briefly introduced the Huron 
courier and bid him repeat for the ears of the 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


103 

assembled chiefs the message of the French gen- 
eral. 

Even as the Huron spoke the scouts of the Ot- 
tawawas began to come in with reports confirm- 
ing the intelligence of the French Governor. 
These dark figures glided up beside Pontiac and 
whispered their tidings into his ear. They re- 
ported that a great company of riflemen was ad- 
vancing from the south, with Fort Duquesne at 
the junction of the Allegheny and Monongahela 
Rivers, as their obvious objective. Pontiac ques- 
tioned each scout sharply. 

“Red Coats?” he asked of one. 

The scout shook his head in a vigorous nega- 
tive. 

“Deerskin and long shooting sticks,” was his 
answer, indicating that the advancing troops were 
not of the kind who had met signal disaster under 
the unfortunate Braddock, but were Colonial ri- 
flemen. 

When the Huron’s speech had ended he sat 
down and began to smoke stolidly. For a few 
minutes no one spoke. Then Strong Bear arose 
and addressed his associates. 

“When the dog of an Iroquois was armed with 
the long shooting stick by his friends of the Eng- 
lish,” he said, “did he not slay the Algonquin? 
Were not the people of the lakes his helpless vie- 


104 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


tims? Who was the brother to the man of the 
lakes? Who put the rifle into his hands and 
made him a warrior fit to cope with the men of 
the long house of the Iroquois? Strong Bear 
doesn’t forget Honnondio, who was his friend, 
asks help from his red brother whom he has 
helped. Strong Bear would dig up the war-hatchet 
against the English foes of the men of the lakes. 
I have spoken.” 

As the Chippewa resumed his seat, all eyes 
were turned upon the Sagamore Ick-toosh. The 
old man began to speak slowly. 

“Last night,” he said, “Ick-toosh spoke to his 
brothers. The words of Ick-toosh were feathers 
on the air for the storm has blown them away. 
The words of Ick-toosh lay upon the ground and 
the snow has covered them up. So Ick-toosh, 
the aged man, the man of many councils, must 
make new words for the ears of his brothers. 
Listen to his words. The men of the lakes are 
at peace. Their long houses have store in plenty. 
Their woods are full of beaver and deer. They 
may range the forest unmolested. Today Hon- 
nondio is the white brother of the men of the 
lakes, but every day his people come more and 
more. Every moon their great ships bear them 
over the big water. They have girdled the men 
of the lakes in with a belt of strong houses. When 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


105 


their need presses and their strong houses are so 
many that the game shall be driven from the 
forests, what shall the men of the lakes do? Will 
they give up their tomahawks and be women work- 
ing in the fields? Will they be slaves on the 
great plantations of the whites? Oh, Manitu the 
mighty, has set white nation against white na- 
tion and they will destroy each other, if the red 
man stand aside. Let the war-hatchet stay buried. 
The quarrel of the white nation is not the quarrel 
of the red man. Let not my brothers lose their 
scalps in the quarrel of the pale-faces.” 

The words of Ick-toosh always carried great 
weight among his people, and several of the war- 
riors nodded their heads in approval of his coun- 
cil. But the younger men turned their eyes anx- 
iously toward the face of the head of the con- 
federacy. Pontiac did not disappoint them. 

“The words of Ick-toosh were not feathers that 
the wind blew away,” he began, “nor were they 
covered by the snow. Yesterday they were good 
words. If the war between the white nations 
were a war afar off, the men of the lakes need 
take no thought. But the English come. They 
come into the country of Pontiac. Have they 
sent their messengers for permission to come into 
the country of Pontiac? Do they come with belts 
of wampum, to smoke the pipe of peace? No! 


106 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

They come as their red coats come, with their 
knives in their belts and their shooting sticks in 
their hands, to take the strong houses of the In- 
dians’ friends and slay the men of the lakes.” 

The chief’s cold eyes settled on Strong Bear 
as he began a crafty personal appeal. 

“Where,” he asked, “is the scalp lock of Red 
Elk, the brave blood brother of Strong Bear? 
Why was his skull red when we prepared him for 
burial? Did the English spare Red Elk and his 
squaw and his papoose?” 

His glance shifted to the Wyandot chief. 

“Why sits my brother Wassebo silent,” he 
asked? “Was it in Wassebo’s heart or the heart 
of his father that the red coat’s bullet sank? Has 
Wassebo no word to say? Is his tomahawk asleep 
in his hand when he hears the name of the Eng- 
lish?” 

Again his glance turned and singled out the 
scarred features of Torn Face. 

“Was it the claw of a bear that ripped the 
cheek of my Shawnee brother?” he asked. “Was 
it the horn of an elk that laid his cheekbone bare? 
Or was it the knife of an English warrior? 

“Brothers! Have we the spirit of the ancient 
Lenape? Are we a strong people, or are we 
women? Are we wild beasts of the forest that 
know not how to repay kindness with kindness, 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


107 


and injury with vengeance? The great chief of 
the French is the brother of Pontiac. He had 
been the brother and the protector of the men 
of the lakes. Shall his foes overcome him and 
we sit idle in our long houses? Wherever the 
English have been they have slain our people 
and wasted our lands, and stolen our furs. They 
come into the door of our house unbidden. Let 
them be driven back crying like whipped dogs! 
Let their scalps be the spoil of our young men! 
Dig up the hatchet! Pontiac speaks for war!” 

The circle had been shifting uneasily under the 
white-hot words of the old warrior. As he drew 
his blanket around him Wassebo stood up and 
threw his to the ground. His black eyes were 
blazing and the nervous grip of his hand swung 
his tomahawk before him. Crouching his body so 
that he leaned forward from the hips, and step- 
ping with flexed knees he began a slow dance 
around the fire. 

“Yow-wee!” he sang as he danced. 

“Yow-wee is the war-yell of Wassebo. 

“Wassebo thirsts for blood. 

“Wassebo would tear the pale heart out of the 
Englishman. 

“Wassebo would bury his tomahawk in the 
white skull of his enemy.” 

One by one the other braves arose and fol- 


108 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

lowed him in his dance; Great Bear first, Torn 
Face next, and one by one the others until the 
wild war-yell resounded through the black for- 
est corridors, as the red men pranced with ever 
increasing frenzy, their naked bodies glistening, 
their tomahawks brandished. 

Squaws and children swarmed out of the cabins 
to see what was going on. They beheld the ring 
of braves circling around two figures : — one, seat- 
ed, was that of Ick-toosh, his eyes somber, the 
other, standing, was Pontiac, who smiled with 
fierce joy. 

When the war dance was over at last, Pontiac 
began his military preparations. His plan was 
to repeat, if possible, the maneuver against Gen- 
eral Braddock, and he purposed an immediate de- 
parture attended by all the braves within call. 
The village was to be left in charge of the youths 
who had not attained a warrior’s dignity. 

Rushing Water, dull-brained and heavy-hearted 
from grief, was summoned to the council fire to 
receive the commands of Pontiac. 

“My son,” said the old chief, laying a heavy 
hand upon his shoulder. “This evening shall see 
my warriors on the warpath. You' shall remain 
to guard the village. It is a warrior’s training. 
Take these older boys and send them as scouts 
into the woods, so that none shall approach you 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 109 

without knowledge. If help be needed, send your 
fleetest runner on my trail to the south. Mean- 
while, let Outanie be placed in her narrow house 
like the daughter of chiefs and the wife of a 
chief. Farewell, my son.” 

Rushing Water returned to attend to the ob- 
sequies of his mother. She was laid at rest dur- 
ing the day with honors unusual for a squaw. 
Furs and corn were buried with her, while the 
chiefs of the Six Nations stood around mourning 
with the stricken father and son. 

The funeral over, Pontiac addressed himself 
to the work ahead of him. Dried deer meat, cut 
in strips, and little bags of corn constituted the 
meager commissariat. Before darkness fell the 
stern, silent procession left the village and plunged 
into the wild. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE GATHERING STORM 

It was a dreary autumn and winter for Rush- 
ing Water. The gift of the rifle had been made 
to a gay-hearted boy; the charge of the village 
had been entrusted to a man, for sorrow, sudden 
and deep, tempers the spirit as fire does the iron. 
Although there were older lads than he among 
the little company Pontiac had left to guard the 
cabins of the Ottawawas, the crafty old chief had 
made a wise choice. He soon showed his met- 
tle. Among the braves who had gone with the 
war party was Ish-to-ba, who some years before 
had called Rushing Water “Squaw girl,” and had 
suffered for the taunt. He was the youngest and 
least experienced of the warriors and after the 
fall of Duquesne, Pontiac sent him back to the 
village to inform Rushing Water that the Otta- 
wawa braves were journeying eastward to join 
Montcalm in the Adirondacks. Puffed up with 
pride over his new dignities, Ish-to-ba, who had 
never forgiven Rushing Water the beating he had 


no 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


hi 


received at the hands of the younger lad, as- 
sumed command as the right of a warrior. Rush- 
ing Water found that his instructions to some of 
the other boys had been countermanded one morn- 
ing. 

Looking toward the cabin of Ish-to-ba he saw 
that young buck sitting at the door, a crowd of 
lads gathered round him to listen to his story of 
the expedition. Ish-to-ba had stuffed his pipe with 
kinnikinnie and was boasting of his exploits. 

“With my shooting stick,” he said grandly, “I 
slew three English dogs. Then alone I grappled 
with one of the white chiefs and my knife found 
his heart.” 

“But where are their scalps?” asked Gray 
Hawk, one of the older lads. 

Ish-to-ba smoked with great dignity. 

“Boys must not question warriors,” he said. 

“Gray Hawk,” said Rushing Water quietly, 
“this was your hour to watch by the creek. Why 
are you in the camp?” 

The lad turned on his questioner. 

“Ish-to-ba bade me come in and hear his war 
talk,” he answered. 

Two disconcerting dark brown eyes surveyed 
the young warrior coldly from under level brows. 
Ish-to-ba returned the stare with a sneer. 


1 12 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“You are not well brought up, boy,” he said, 
“or you would not interrupt a warrior.” 

“Is Pontiac dead, then?” Rushing Water asked. 
“And have the chiefs elected a new king whose 
name is Ish-to-ba?” 

The buck sprang to his feet. He was a splen- 
did savage, tall, well-muscled and agile. As he 
advanced toward Rushing Water his wide nostrils 
quivered with cruel rage and his black eyes glowed 
with dull hate. His fingers gripped a stout birch 
wand. 

“Dog of a white-heart!” he growled, “I must 
teach you a lesson. Bare your back till I beat 
you !” 

Rushing Water bared his back but not for a 
beating. As he flung his blanket from him it 
became evident that Ish-to-ba had not much ad- 
vantage over him save in bulk. Rushing Water’s 
magnificent body was as supple as a sapling and 
as tough as a hickory branch. The long low 
muscles rippled under his smooth skin as he bent 
his arms. Ish-to-ba raised his stick, but before it 
fell fingers of steel clasped the descending wrist 
and the buck staggered under the impact of a 
clenched fist full on his brow. With a guttural im- 
precation Ish-to-ba dropped his stick and plucked 
a knife from his belt. Quick as was the sweep 
of his hand, it was not more quick than that of 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


113 

Rushing Water. For a second the two youths 
faced each other, eye to eye. Then the buck 
began to circle round his opponent, uttering short, 
yelping ejaculations. His feet rose and fell in a 
cat-like tread. Rushing Water, turning on his 
heel awaited the onset in silence. At last came 
the spring and the thrust, and the swift blade of 
Ish-to-ba sought the heart of his enemy. It broke 
on the interposed blade of Rushing Water, who 
swerved and swung in a lightning swoop, encircling 
the body of Ish-to-ba with his left arm, while the 
flexed right elbow pressed into the buck’s throttle. 
The broken knife fell from Ish-to-ba’s hand, which 
sprang to his throat to release the choking grip. 
He bent his great muscles to free himself, but 
the embrace into which he had been entrapped 
was like a tightening steel band, and at last with 
tongue and eyeballs protruding he gave way. He 
fell on his back, Rushing Water on top of him. 

“Listen, Ish-to-ba,” panted Rushing Water, his 
arm still pressed like a bar on his enemy’s throat, 
“for the next time I shall kill you. This village 
obeys me. While you are in it you obey me. Shall 
it be so?” 

He released the pressure slightly. Ish-to-ba 
gasped for breath. When he could speak he 
said: 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


1 14 

“Have your way ! I shall not trouble you again 
until the braves return.” 

Rushing Water sprang to his feet. 

“It is well,” he said. “Gray Hawk, to your 
post!” he commanded sharply and the lad did not 
tarry. 

Ish-to-ba gave no trouble after that. He re- 
mained in the village sullen and glowering, but 
the authority of Rushing Water was not ques- 
tioned and his dispositions were carried out to the 
letter. Reports from the front were not encourag- 
ing. The French and their Indian allies had some 
success at first in Eastern New York, but early in 
the following year the tide of war turned and one 
by one the French posts fell, until at last Mont- 
calm died on the Plains of Abraham, and the 
French empire of the west was broken forever. 

Pontiac returned to his village in a bitter and 
vengeful mood. He found his stronghold pros- 
perous, but his future and that of his people gave 
him much concern. His old companions in arms 
were gone, the dominant whites were now a 
strange people, and not overfriendly. They tra- 
versed his lands without permission, they strength- 
ened the posts they had taken from the French 
and built new outposts on the creeks and the lakes. 
There were still French in considerable numbers 
among the hunters and traders, expeditions from 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


ii5 


New Orleans in the far south ascended the Mis- 
sissippi and its tributaries to barter for furs and 
the famous couriers du bois plied their trade on 
the lakes, but the empire was in English hands, 
the military forces were composed of hostile, con- 
temptuous men, and little heed was paid to the 
pride and property rights of the Ottawawa chief. 
He tried to impress his power on the strangers at 
the onset but failed. When Major Rogers jour- 
neyed westward to take charge of Detroit, Pon- 
tiac, with a hundred braves, met him at the Alle- 
gheny. 

“You come into the empire of Pontiac,” he said 
to the English officer, “yet no one has asked Pon- 
tiac’s permission.” 

The Englishman turned to the interpreter. 

“Say to the chief,” he said, “that I go to De- 
troit on my master’s business; that the King of the 
English is lord over all the land.” 

The interpreter translated. 

“Till the next sun,” said Pontiac, “I stand in 
your path. Then we shall see.” 

All that night the chief pondered. From his 
tepee he could see the camp-fires of the English 
and his experienced eyes noted the confident and 
efficient manner in which the colonials took precau- 
tions against surprise. They were too strong for 


1 1 6 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

him. In the morning he hid his deep chagrin be- 
hind an impassive countenance. 

“My white brother,” he said, “has safe conduct 
through the lands of Pontiac. My young men 
shall escort him to Detroit.” 

So the months passed, and what they held added 
to the rage in the heart of the chief. His new 
neighbors had none of the winning courtesy of his 
old white allies. Complaint after complaint came 
to him from the people of his confederacy of insult 
and outrage. The fire smoldered in the hearts of 
the chief and his followers. Pontiac kept much to 
his tent, silent and thoughtful. A dozen times his 
younger men called on him to dig up the hatchet 
but he restrained them. 

“Not yet; not yet!” he would say with uplifted 
hand. 

But on tablets of birch he marked down each 
tale of oppression. 

“The account grows long,” he said grimly one 
day to Rushing Water. 

“Too long, father!” exclaimed the young man 
impatiently. 

Pontiac surveyed him shrewdly. 

“It shall be settled in time, my son,” he said. 
“Settled to the last mark. You shall have a war- 
rior’s work cut out for you.” 

He began to store the supply houses with corn 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


1 17 

not only from his own fields but from those of 
other tribes. Messengers were sent to trusted 
friends at Quebec and returned laden with powder 
and bullets. When his supply of furs gave out 
Pontiac pledged the fruit of future hunts. He 
gave to the daring French traders notes on his 
future wealth, rudely written on birch bark tablets 
and signed with his totem, the otter. 

In Detroit and Fort Pitt, as Duquesne had been 
renamed, and in the other posts and settlements, 
the conquering English slept in fancied security. 
But in the wild the storm was brewing. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE MEETING ON THE ISLE 

The warm ray of the April sun, broken into 
countless flashes of gold on the rippling surface of 
Lake Erie, washed the shores of the beautiful 
island which the Indians called Pelee. Thickly 
covered with somber pine, that shaded the tender 
green of the fresh grass, it lay like an emerald 
on the breast of the lake. Toward this isle one 
morning in the early spring of 1763, hundreds of 
long canoes made their way. They came from all 
directions, and as their paddles flashed and fell the 
circling wild birds rose screaming in the air, 
frightened by the unwonted presence of so many 
human beings on these lonely waters. 

It was in this secluded spot that Pontiac had 
determined to hold his great war council. As the 
warriors arrived he welcomed them gravely to a 
seat round the great council fire. They came from 
many nations. The remnants of the Algonquin 
tribes of the northeast were there. The Miami 
warriors were present. The Obigibways sent 
118 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


119 

their strongest chiefs. The Kaskaskias, hereditary 
foes of the Ottawawas, buried their old animosi- 
ties and came to smoke the pipe of peace with the 
great chief of their enemies. Tall and stately 
the savage Hurons took their place in the wide 
circle. The Illinois tribes mingled with the war- 
riors of the Ottawawa confederacy. 

The sun was four hours high in the eastern sky 
when the pow-wow began. Ick-toosh, the old 
Sagamore, was dead and in that dark assemblage 
there was now no voice for peace. The rapid set- 
tlement of the Ohio country which had followed 
upon the English conquest, had spread a feeling of 
apprehension and resentment among all the west- 
ern tribes, and the haughty demeanor of the new 
settlers quickened a hostility which many cases of 
actual insult and outrage fanned into flame. The 
faces upon which Pontiac’s eyes rested were stern, 
eager faces, whose habitual gravity gave way to 
quick flashes of approval at every suggestion of 
war and bloodshed. Pontiac opened the council. 

“My red brothers,” he said, “you are welcome 
at the council fire of Pontiac. We are men of the 
forest and lake, warriors and the sons of warriors. 
East of us there is a great water; west of us there 
is a great water; beyond, the highest of the high 
hills. By these waters the great spirit marked out 
the hunting grounds of the red race. Beyond 


120 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


these waters are other lands which Manitu gave 
to the white peoples to dwell in. But from where 
the sun rises in the sea to where the sun sets in 
the sea is many times the flight of an eagle, and 
by the gift of the great spirit these are the red 
man’s lands. There are traditions among our 
people, talks which the shore Indian has made to 
his inland neighbors, that when first the pale-face 
came the red man treated him as a brother cast 
up by the sea. He was given fish and maize for 
his food, and furs for a clothing for his body. 
But he came in greater numbers and waxed arro- 
gant and he took our women and slew our men 
and made warriors drunk with his fire water, and 
robbed them of their furs and lands with force 
and false words. What say you to this, my 
brothers?” 

Strong-left-hand, the gigantic chief of the Kas- 
kaskias let fall his blanket and folding his arms 
upon his breast gazed round the circle. One ear 
had been shorn from his skull and a great white 
seam lay across his forehead. 

“My brothers,” he said, touching the seam on 
his brow, “this cleft was made by the tomahawk of 
an Ottawawa warrior. The scalp knife of Pontiac 
shore my ear from the skull, and there has been 
blood feud between us. But because Pontiac is a 
great chief of the red man’s blood, and wise as a 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


1 2 1 


serpent and bold as an eagle, I have come to 
smoke with him the pipe of peace, to say to the 
red people that the war-hatchet has been buried 
between us and to pledge my tomahawk to his 
cause against the English invaders of our home. 
We are not few who rightfully own this forest 
and these waters, but we dwell by many smokes. 
We are not women but warriors. We are not 
slaves but free men. The feud of the Kaskaskia 
has a call in my ears which my spirit answers, 
but louder is the call of the red man’s blood which 
the Kaskaskia shares with many nations. Among 
the warriors let there be peace. Between them 
and the pale-face let there be war. Let their men 
die under the tomahawk. Let their women die 
and their children die, so that this side of the 
great water there may be no more English dogs. 
I have spoken.” 

One after another the leading chiefs added 
their voices to the cry for war. One after another 
with fiery words they inflamed their own hearts 
and those of their companions. 

Among the young men gathered round, none 
drank in more eagerly the tale of the Indian 
wrongs than Rushing Water, and in no heart did 
the cry for vengeance more loudly ring. He 
looked with eager eyes upon these chiefs, most of 
them warriors of renown, tales of whose exploits 


122 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


had been told many times around the camp fires. 
Gathered together there, they seemed to him to 
represent an irresistible force. To the sanguine 
spirit of youth there could be but one outcome of 
the proposed war, one issue to the wild onset of 
all these redoubtable warriors striking for a cause 
dearest to the Indian’s heart. He had seen the 
war dance many times but the wild gyration which 
was to end this council was such as no man had 
ever seen before. 

When the frenzy of the warriors had been ex- 
cited to the highest pitch by the recounted wrongs 
of their people, and Pontiac had lashed them into 
an insane fury with words of fire, they threw 
aside their blankets, and screaming their wild war- 
whoops and brandishing knives and tomahawks 
pranced demoniacally in the huge circle. There 
were three hundred maddened braves in that 
whirlblast of hate. Ominous was their dance for 
the peace of the English settlements, for those 
three hundred represented full six thousand war- 
riors who within a few hours would be speeding 
through the forest on deadly business. They 
danced until exhausted and slept where they fell 
on the ground, awakening only for the great feast 
that the Ottawawa chief had prepared for his 
guests. The next morning found them again at 
council, this time gravely considering the plans of 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


123 


war which Pontiac laid before them. With his 
tomahawk the old chief drew a rude map upon 
the ground. 

“Here,” he said, marking a cross, “is the fort 
they call Detroit. There shall I assail with a thou- 
sand warriors. Here is Michilimakinak. Let 
my brother the Obigibway chief take care of the 
settlement there. Strong Bear shall lead the party 
to the settlement the French call Le Boeuf. My 
brother the Kaskaskia chief shall scourge the 
shores of the great lake of Michigan. And here 
at Venango, where the French Creek joins the 
Allegheny, I shall expect my son, Rushing Water, 
to do a warrior’s work at the head of my young 
men.” 

Rushing Water, who had been eagerly listening, 
brightened at these words and hurriedly began to 
recruit his company. Eighty warriors were as- 
signed him for his work. All preparations having 
been made, the council broke up, the chiefs hurry- 
ing to rally their tribes before the sun set. The 
Ottawawa flotilla was on the lake. It divided into 
two parts, one great fleet, under Pontiac, proceed- 
ing to the westward, and ten long canoes, each 
with a company of eight men, speeding toward the 
east. In command of the smaller party was Rush- 
ing Water, his scalp shaven save for the single 
scalp lock with its eagle feather, and his face and 


124 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


body hideously daubed with the red and yellow 
of his war paint. 

Pontiac’s long-buried hatchet was out of the 
ground at last. Within three days the war yells 
of his followers were shrieking around the smaller 
and less protected settlements. The wrath of the 
old chief was loose like a living flame lashing the 
far northwest frontier in the last desperate strug- 
gle of the lake Indians against encompassing 
destiny. 


CHAPTER X 


BAGGATAWAY 

Thrust out into the wilderness the rude outpost 
of a white civilization at Venango was tucked 
cozily into a bend of the Allegheny stream, some 
miles about Fort Pitt. The French had estab- 
lished the settlement close to the mouth of French 
Creek, a waterway much used by the Indians. 
Although the cross of St. George now fluttered in 
the breeze above the block house, and the garrison 
of twenty soldiers stationed at the post were 
British regulars, there still remained a few French 
families among the forty who composed the set- 
tlement. Some of these had already established 
permanent homes outside the palisades, and with- 
in, while others were temporary sojourners at the 
post — traders from Quebec or from distant New 
Orleans. The new families were for the most 
part transplanted Virginia Colonials, between 
whom and the French settlers there had already 
grown up a community feeling that was gradually 
overcoming the rancors of the recent war. The 
125 


126 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


young English officers visited the homes of the 
French and found the company of the vivacious 
French girls vastly agreeable. Small as was the 
settlement, and remote from the civilization of 
which it was an offshoot, it had its social spirit and 
its pleasant hours. 

The log houses were in some cases more than 
mere cabins, and there were little parlors taste- 
fully decorated and showing some of the luxury of 
the old world. Traders ascending the river 
brought French journals from New Orleans, and 
although these were many months old when they 
reached Venango, they carried some of the gossip 
and much of the feeling of the old world to its 
distant daughter in the far-off valley of the Alle- 
gheny. 

The sight of Indians was not strange to these 
frontier folk. In the old days there had been a 
camaraderie between the French and the neighbor- 
ing warriors, and even now braves in couples or in 
dozens were frequent visitors. Sometimes even a 
hunting party of considerable size camped outside 
the palisade and offered pelts for barter. Pros- 
perous, happy little Venango lay in the smiling 
Allegheny Valley, on a beautiful morning in early 
May when all the world seemed at peace. At sun- 
rise the sentry reported to Ensign Gadwell that 
two Indians were at the gates. He was ordered 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


127 


to admit them and they soon were standing before 
the British officer, a brace of young bucks, one of 
whom addressed the Englishman in French. The 
soldier shook his head. 

“Call that trader from New Orleans — what’s 
his name? — Ah, yes, Monsieur de Boncour,” he 
said to an orderly. The Indians stood like stone 
figures until the French trader entered the room. 
He was a powerful man of middle age with danc- 
ing black eyes and a bold brow, clothed in fringed 
hunting jacket and leggings. 

“Ah, my friend,” saluted young Gadwell, “I am 
in difficulties. I speak neither French nor any 
Indian tongue, and here are two savages who 
would have words with me. May I ask aid?” 

“Certainly, Monsieur,” smiled the trader. 
Then turning to the dark visitors he asked in 
French : 

“What would my red brothers have from the 
white chief?” 

“We are of Pontiac’s people,” answered the 
taller of the two Indians. “We have two parties 
who would play baggataway which the French call 
La Crosse. We would ask the white chief for 
permission to use the clearing outside the walls 
for our game.” 

De Boncour translated the request to the officer 
who replied smilingly: 


128 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“Ah, I have heard of this game. It will fur- 
nish sport. Tell them they have our permission 
and welcome. When do they play?” 

“When do you play?” asked the trader in 
French. The brave addressed pointed to a spot 
in the sky midway between the meridian and the 
western horizon. 

“About four in the afternoon,” explained de 
Boncour to the Englishman. Then addressing the 
Indians again he said: 

“The white chief gives permission to the young 
warriors to play in the clearing.” 

They bowed gravely and signified that they 
were ready to depart. The sentry escorted them 
to the gate, opened it and let them out. They 
walked slowly to a long canoe lying on the river 
bank, pushed it into the water, jumped in and 
paddled up the stream. 

The trader, left alone with the officer, turned 
to him with a look of uneasiness in his eyes. 

“I am as you know but two days in the post, 
Monsieur,” he said. “Tell me, are the Indians 
friendly?” 

“No bother at all,” said Gadwell easily. “In 
fact they haven’t even ventured near us these 
three weeks.” 

The shadow deepened in de Boncour’s eyes. 

“By no means a good sign, that, if Monsieur 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


129 


will pardon me,” he said gravely. “There was 
something I liked little about the look of those 
two. Might I suggest to Monsieur that he order 
all his people to keep within the palisade, while 
these savages are close by?” 

“Ah, nonsense, my friend,” laughed the English- 
man. “I was just thinking what a capital diver- 
sion it would be for us all to go out and watch 
their game. These two seemed friendly enough.” 

“I am twenty years a woodsman,” said de Bon- 
cour, “so you will pardon me for saying it would 
be quite foolhardy to go without the walls. Watch 
their play from within, Monsieur!” 

The officer laughed again. “Ah, Miss Bon- 
cour!” he called. “What think you of this timid 
uncle of yours, who would spoil the beauty of our 
glorious spring morning with grisly forebodings, 
because a handful of savages wish to play ball 
in our clearing?” 

The girl thus greeted had opened the door of 
one of the log dwellings and stepped out on the 
porch. She laughed back a gay greeting to the 
young officer, and, vaulting the low balustrade of 
the porch with the lightness and grace of a fawn, 
she danced across the sward and caught her uncle 
round the neck. Then she turned and bowed de- 
murely to his companion. 

“Good morning, Meestaire Gad-weel,” she said 


130 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


in slow, unaccustomed English. “Mon oncle — 
deed you say heem timid?’’ She laughed heartdy 
at the idea. The young soldier joined in her 
mirth, his eyes full of frank admiration. He 
noted the deep gladness of her great brown eyes, 
the rose flush beneath the creamy tan of her 
rounded cheeks, the silky richness of her chestnut 
hair, and the cherry red of her lips parted in the 
frank gay-hearted laughter of seventeen. Clothed 
in a dainty habit of deerskin, whose brown tints 
harmonized with hair and eyes and sun-kissed 
cheeks, she might well stir to quickened throbbing 
a less impressionable heart than that of the young 
officer. 

“Not for himself, do I mean,” said Gadwell, 
“but for the prize in his charge, and by gad, Miss 
Boncour, were I in charge of such a treasure, I 
would be uneasy too.” 

De Boncour had taken no part in this pleasan- 
try. The experienced wood-rover was studying 
an oncoming fleet of long canoes just turning a 
bend in the river. A rather grim smile played 
upon his lips as he counted the boats and made 
a rough estimate of the number of warriors they 
carried. 

“Rather more than a handful there, Monsieur,” 
he said quietly. 

Gadwell, who in his present pleasant occupa- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


131 

tion of smiling into the eyes of Valerie de Bon- 
cour, had forgotten the Indians, turned with a 
start and let his eyes rest upon the approaching 
canoes. For an instant his face grew serious. 

“How many do you count, my friend?” he said. 

“There are eighty braves in that party,” de 
Boncour answered. 

“And does that presage difficulties?” asked the 
young officer. 

“Not necessarily,” the Frenchman answered, 
“but it justifies precautions. I renew my most re- 
spectful suggestion that all our people keep within 
the palisade until this party shall have left.” 

The Indians pulled their shallops out on the 
bank and proceeded to the edge of the clearing 
where they made a camp fire. This business hav- 
ing been attended to, the morning meal was pre- 
pared. The soldiers, watching them curiously, 
beheld only a party of young men seemingly bent 
upon a day’s frolic. Some of them stood by the 
fires and smoked, others ran short foot races, 
while still others in small groups sauntered up 
and down before the protecting walls. The mid- 
day meal was cooked and eaten, the early after- 
noon passed slowly, and the hour of four came at 
last. 

Then was a stir in the Indian camp. A small 
group of Indians brought four fresh-cut saplings 


132 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


out of the woods and set a pair of these up at 
opposite ends of the clearing. Twenty of the 
braves threw off their blankets and their hunting 
shirts, and, naked to the waist, divided into two 
parties, one at either end of the field. Each of 
these braves held in his hand a racket with a 
handle five feet in length, bent at one end like a 
shepherd’s crook, the bight of which was netted 
with thongs of deer hide. From the edge of the 
marked-out field a young buck threw a ball. Like 
a flash the opposing teams made for it, and the 
game was on. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE BLOOD CALL 

Where the tossed ball fell in the middle of the 
oblong field, there was a moment’s wild confusion, 
above which the rackets swung back and forth. 
At last the ball rose from the center of the strug- 
gling braves in a long flight toward the northerly 
goal. Instantly the knot of young Indians broke 
and darted in pursuit, while the goal keeper 
crossed his racket in front of his body and 
crouched down to protect his wickets. One of the 
young bucks soon emerged from the cluster, how- 
ever, as his comrades turned to interfere with their 
opponents, and his quick racket scooped the ball 
from the sod. With a hurried swing he flung 
it toward the south. It seemed like a long, wild 
throw. The ball soared over the palisade and 
landed within the post. Half a dozen young 
braves scrambled in through the open gate before 
the sentry could interpose his rifle, and catching 
the ball as it lay on the ground one of them tossed 
it carelessly back over the paling. Then the 
133 


134 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Indians went out again and resumed the play. 

To the white spectators the game afforded ex- 
citement and pleasure. Nearly all the residents 
of the settlement had gathered along the palisade 
to gaze at the contending teams over the log 
breast-works. The women applauded each swift 
flight and throw, and among the men wagers were 
made upon the outcome. Soon all suspicion was 
dissipated and only de Boncour, noting the fre- 
quency with which wildly thrown balls came over 
the stockade to be retrieved each time by a larger 
group of players, nursed a vague suspicion in his 
heart and kept his hand on his rifle. 

“See that young runner on the southerly team,” 
said Gadwell to him. “He seems unlike all his 
companions.” 

The eyes of the little party sought out the 
brave indicated. He was easily distinguishable 
from the rest not only because of the superior 
swiftness and grace of his movements, but because 
of the high, clear laughter that came from him 
from time to time and that sounded strangely 
among the fierce ejaculations of his companions. 

“He is a very handsome Indian,” said Valerie 
with prompt decision. Du Boncour’s eyes fol- 
lowed him curiously. 

“That is very strange,” murmured the French- 
man. “He plays more like a white man than a 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


135 

savage. Ha ! — ” The exclamation was caused 
by another flight of the ball over the stockade. 
This time there was a general rush to retrieve it, 
not only the players entering the enclosure, but a 
general movement taking place among the Indian 
spectators. 

“In heaven’s name Gadwell, get your men to- 
gether, it is a surprise,” the Frenchman cried to 
the young commandant. In confirmation of his 
words a scream of terror arose from the gate 
through which the whole Indian band was now 
pouring into the enclosure, and like an echo, wild 
and shrill, and ringing with a fierce blood lust, 
the yelping war-whoop tore the evening peace. 

Gadwell, alert at last, although cold at heart 
with the realization of his irretrievable blunder, 
snapped out quick, short orders trying to rally his 
scattered little forces. He was not given time 
even to recognize how futile was this effort, for 
an Indian bullet crashed into his skull and he fell 
forward. 

The scene that followed was one of horrid 
butchery. Some of the men managed to reach 
their rifles and bringing down a few of their red 
foes before they, themselves, fell. But the sur- 
prise had been too complete, the attack too sudden 
and unexpected, and only one man in all that 
little white company fought with a cool brain and 


136 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


a steady eye. De Boncour, kneeling on the 
ground, fired and reloaded and fired again, each 
bullet finding its mark until his powder-horn was 
empty. Then with his rifle clubbed and swinging 
like a flail, he leaped out among the massed In- 
dians. Two men he added to his account before he 
sank under the rain of hatchets and the scalp was 
torn from his skull. The men had now all fallen 
and the red fury of the enraged warriors began to 
wreak its infernal way upon the women and chil- 
dren. Old women and young girls huddled to- 
gether, were dragged from among their compan- 
ions half dead with terror, their long hair twisted 
in the sinewy grip of a brave, and the scalp knife 
driven into their skulls, ere they fell to the ground. 
Little children were tomahawked as they clung 
to their mothers’ skirts, or ran screaming, seeking 
escape where there was no escape. 

In the midst of all this carnage stood one, still, 
silent figure. Rushing Water had been foremost 
in the onset, had fought with a gay impetuosity 
while there was fighting to do, but now that the 
white men were huddled corpses, and knife and 
tomahawk were doing wild and bloody work 
among defenseless women and little children, he 
stopped, wide-eyed with horror, sick with repug- 
nance. Few of his companions engrossed in their 
cruel exercise, noted the strange conduct of the 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


137 

chief of their party, but those who did so mar- 
veled. Ish-to-ba was among these latter. 

“Man- who- walks- with- his-toes-turned-out,” he 
yelled as he ran by, “does the sight of blood 
sicken your white heart?” 

The taunt attracted Rushing Water’s attention. 
He saw a little figure clothed in fringed deerskin, 
and with long, chestnut hair floating on the breeze, 
in swift flight through the open gate of the stock- 
ade, and behind her in full pursuit, with bloody 
tomahawks waving, were Ish-to-ba and another 
brave. The sight electrified him and with a spring 
he darted after them. The white girl was fleet- 
footed and she almost reached the river bank be- 
fore her pursuers overtook her. Indeed, she 
would have made good her escape had she not 
tripped and fallen headlong over a broken bough 
in her path. With a yell of fierce exultation, Ish- 
to-ba swooped down upon her. Catching her hair 
close to her skull, he dragged her to her knees. 

Rushing Water saw the rarely beautiful face of 
the girl uplifted in appeal and her hands clasped 
in supplication. An instant later his grip was on 
Ish-to-ba’s shoulder and that surprised warrior 
found himself spun round like a top. The girl’s 
hair had slipped from his relaxed fingers, but with 
the tomahawk whose blow he had intended for the 
delicate girl, he delivered a fierce sweep at Rush- 


138 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


ing Water’s brow. The hatchet hissed through 
empty air. Swift as a serpent, Rushing Water 
had swerved from its descending path. 

“ ’Tis the third time, Ish-to-ba,” he said grimly 
through his set teeth, as he buried his hunting 
knife to the hilt in the heart of the Indian. 

Young War Eagle, who had beheld this scene 
in a very paralysis of amazement, now woke to 
furious, vengeful life, and sprang with a scream 
at Rushing Water, his war-hatchet upraised. But 
the young chief was too quick for him and dex- 
terously avoiding his onset, felled him with a 
sweep of the tomahawk that smote like a thunder- 
bolt. 

Yelps of surprise and fury came now from the 
direction of the fort, and Rushing Water lifting 
his eyes saw the whole Indian band streaming 
down upon him. He turned and looked for the 
girl whom he had rescued. She had taken advan- 
tage of his intervention to gain the river bank and 
was now pushing off from the shore in one of the 
long canoes. Picking up his rifle which he had 
dropped in the encounter with the two Indians, 
Rushing Water leaped into the river. Its current 
was rapidly bearing the canoe down stream. Hold- 
ing the rifle above his head with one hand, the 
young chief swam rapidly in pursuit of the boat. 
Twenty vigorous strokes brought him alongside. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


i39 

He thrust his rifle into the canoe, which he guided 
to a little islet in the middle of the river. 

The Indians had gathered at the bank and were 
discharging their rifles at him, the bullets hitting 
the water near by with a vicious spat. Steadying 
the boat on the beach, Rushing Water clambered 
into it and then with the quick and powerful thrust 
of his paddle, sent it speeding down the stream. 
Half a dozen boats were already in pursuit, but 
the skill and strength of Rushing Water with the 
paddle were long well known among his com- 
panions, and a note of furious disappointment 
was already mingling with their cries of rage 
and vengeance. Their riflemen still fired upon 
him and Rushing Water warily watching them 
over his shoulder as his bark shot down the stream 
under the strong, steady thrust of his paddle, 
reached forward from time to time to crush down 
into the bottom of the boat with his left hand, 
the frightened girl who sat before him. One 
bullet, better aimed than the rest, tore the smooth 
skin of his shoulder but that was his narrowest 
escape. 

The steady swinging of his paddle never 
ceased. Smaller and smaller in his sight grew 
the pursuing canoes, and fainter and fainter the 
cries, until at last the crimson river grew dull 
brown and the night fell upon them. 


CHAPTER XII 

UNDERSTANDING 

Arrow-fleet, on the swift running breast of the 
dark Allegheny, that fugitive canoe sped its south- 
ward course. Like the steady beat of a piece of 
machinery, Rushing Water’s paddle rose and fell, 
rose and fell, unceasing through the dark hours. 
On a rug of bear skin at the bottom of the bark, 
crouched the quivering figure of Valerie. With 
eager, straining eyes that sought to read through 
the gloom some hint as to her fate, the girl 
watched the dark figure in the stern of the canoe. 
She could not see his features in the gloom and 
he did not speak to her, but as the hours wore 
on and the beating paddle rose and fell without 
cessation, something in the swift certainty of the 
brave’s rhythmical sweep of his cedar blade began 
to allay the wild terror in her heart. 

She saw the lantern’s dim glimmer at Fort Pitt, 
as their swift canoe, under the combined compul- 
sion of the paddle thrust and the hurried current 
of the river in flood, swept round the bend and 
140 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


141 

out upon the Ohio’s wider reaches. For a while 
she hoped against hope that her captor would land 
her there, for she knew that there were white men 
garrisoning that post. The somber waterman, 
however, did not even glance at the twinkling 
lights but held his rapid course. The sky was 
overcast, only showing pale patches where the 
moon was breaking through. A sudden rift let 
down a flood of wan light upon the river, and 
an English sentry, pacing the shore, caught a flash- 
ing glimpse of a spectral bark, propelled by a 
ghostly oarsman, before the torn cloud curtains 
were drawn together and darkness blotted out the 
apparition. He awakened a non-commissioned 
officer and reported, but the sleepy subaltern 
cursed him for a superstitious, drunken wight 
whose fancy was playing him tricks, and returned 
to his interrupted slumber. 

So Valerie beheld with dying hope the lights 
of the fortress fading from her view. Her mind 
was busy with speculations. Why had this young 
brave saved her? Why had he killed his two 
companions in her behalf? What was the mys- 
tery of so amazing an interposition between her 
and a frightful death? Terror and exhaustion 
overcame her at last. The soft swish of the river 
and the steady beat of the paddle were soothing 
influences, and the little body gradually relaxed 


142 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


and sank lower and lower on its couch of furs. 
She slept a troubled sleep. Sobs, deep and vio- 
lent, shook breast and shoulders. The tender 
outstretched limbs twitched spasmodically. Now 
and again a low moan would break from her lips, 
as the spell of horror cast upon her bright, young 
spirit by the events of the day struggled for 
mastery with the soothing influence of slumber. 
Once she awakened, paralyzed with fear and 
bathed in cold perspiration, with the conscious- 
ness of a presence close to her. She saw her cap- 
tor standing above her. Before she could scream 
he had gently placed over her body a blanket 
of beaver skins. Unconscious of the fact that he 
had awakened her, he stepped silently back to his 
seat in the stern, and again she heard the steady 
beat of his paddle and felt the forward thrust of 
the canoe. Her leaden eyelids fell and slumber 
once more possessed her. 

The day had broken and the forest was musi- 
cal with the song of birds, when returning con- 
sciousness brought the old horror back to her 
heart. She was still lying in the canoe, but the 
boat seemed motionless. Raising her head she 
saw that it had been pulled out upon the shelving 
river bank. She looked around for the Indian. 
He was nowhere to be seen. A new terror came 
upon her. Fearful as she had been of this savage 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


M3 


in whose power she was, she now felt in her heart 
the loss of a protector. Something deeper than 
her reason told her that however mysterious the 
motives that actuated it, this young Indian’s atti- 
tude toward her was one of friendliness and pro- 
tection. Consequently she felt the sense of the 
new bereavement coupled with the chilling fear 
of this vast wilderness, which despite its aspect 
of peace and beauty, held dangers of whose cruel 
and deadly character she was now only too sen- 
sible. 

She arose and stood unsteadily on the beach. 
Her arms and legs were stiff and pain-racked. In 
the hope of restoring her blood to a normal state 
of circulation she walked a few hundred paces 
into the woods, then she stopped with a start. A 
strange sound had struck upon her ear. Advanc- 
ing cautiously she came upon an opening among 
the trees. In its center, face down, lay her captor, 
his splendid shoulders shaken by violent sobbing. 
Here was a new amazement. The daughter of a 
fur trader and the niece of one of the best-known 
of the French adventurers of the woods, this girl 
knew something of the Indian character. She 
w T as familiar with their stoicism. She knew that 
their hearts and nerves were steeled against the 
gentler emotions. Yet here lay a young warrior, 
who had taken part in a ferocious onset and a 


144 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


hideous massacre, giving way to some agony of 
heart in a flood of bitter tears. 

Like a garment that is flung aside, all fear fell 
from her spirit and gratitude for the deed that 
had rescued her from death mingled now with 
the young girl’s warm sympathy for a suffering 
human being. Stepping softly to his side she 
placed her little hand upon his quivering shoulder. 
At the friendly touch the agitation of his body 
ceased. He slowly raised himself upon his elbow 
and looked up from under his wet lashes into her 
pitying eyes. 

It was the first clear vision she had of his face 
and she noted with surprise the ample forehead 
and the level brow, the straight, well-modeled 
nose, so different from the usual flattened nose 
of the Indian, the firm lips and the cleft chin, and 
above all the frank friendliness and absolute trust- 
worthiness that shone in the dark brown eyes. A 
quick joy came upon her spirit. There was bond 
for her safety in those features. The sudden- 
ness and completeness of her relief opened the 
flood-gates of her soul that had been frozen by 
despair, and from her own eyes tears came 
streaming now, as she buried her face in her 
hands. Slowly Rushing Water rose to his feet. 
A look of pain and perplexity came over his face. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


145 

For a few minutes he stood watching the little 
weeping figure. Then in his turn he became the 
comforter, and as she lifted her eyes at the re- 
assuring touch of his hand upon her shoulder, he 
shook his head slowly and held out to her the hilt 
of his knife, opening the breast of his hunting 
shirt and baring his heart as a sign to her that he 
would place his life in her hands. Like a ray of 
pale sunshine through an April shower, a wan, 
bright smile shone through Valerie’s tears, as with 
a negative shake of her little head she refused the 
proffered knife. Rushing Water thrust it into his 
belt, looked shrewdly into her face to assure him- 
self her apprehension had vanished, and then, 
beckoning to her to follow, walked down toward 
the canoe. 

That birch vessel, built to carry eight warriors, 
had been well stocked for the journey, and 
the young man drew from it corn and strips 
of dried deer meat. This, washed down by 
the river water, served for breakfast. As they 
were eating Valerie held up a piece of meat in her 
hand. 

“Meat,” she said in her own language. 

Rushing Water’s eyes brightened and he re- 
peated the word after her. She dipped a wooden 
bowl in the river. 


146 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“ Eau !” she said, indicating with one finger the 
clear liquid in the wooden vessel. 

Then with a quick smile he pointed to his own 
breast and exclaimed: 

“Eau!” 


CHAPTER XIII 


ELAN D'EAU 

Youth and health make a brave battle of it with 
hardship and sorrow. Although the loss of her 
uncle was great grief to her, and the dreadful 
massacre of which she had been a witness was 
indelibly stamped upon her memory, Valerie de 
Boncour began, little by little, to recover from 
the effects of the one and the other. Now that 
she no longer feared her companion, the events 
of her journey began to appeal to her healthy 
interest and curiosity. Rushing Water was an 
enigma to her, and what girl of seventeen has not 
had her curiosity piqued by a mystery, particu- 
larly when that mystery entered her life sur- 
rounded by every circumstance of romance and 
was personified in a young man whose physical 
attractiveness was undeniable? 

That there was still danger to be apprehended 
Rushing Water’s precautions made very evident. 
In the first few days of their flight they subsisted 
upon such stores of food as had been stocked in 
147 


148 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


their canoe. Rushing Water made no fires, whose 
telltale smoke might betray their whereabouts to 
a searching foe. They traveled for the most 
part at night, hidden in the woods’ covert during 
the day time. The landing places were selected 
with the utmost care. River weeds and under- 
brush were gently pushed aside that the canoe 
might be hidden among them and that none might 
be broken to mark the trail. During these early 
days of the journey Rushing Water spoke little. 
Although he did not again give way to the emotion 
of grief in which Valerie had surprised him that 
first morning, the girl conjectured from the sad- 
ness that sat upon his features and was shadowed 
in his eyes that he was suffering deep distress. 
Very rarely, when she taught him a word or two 
in French by associating the word with some con- 
crete example, a smile of understanding would, 
for an instant, light up his countenance. She 
found him an apt pupil, however, quick to grasp 
her meaning, and their journey was yet young 
when they were able to exchange some few ideas 
in French. Rushing Water guarded the stores 
carefully, however. He wished neither to lose 
the time nor risk the danger of hunting in the field 
of Pontiac’s operations. His own easy success at 
Venango, coupled with his unshaken confidence 
in the power of the Indian federation, led him 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


149 


to expect that the warriors would descend the 
river in force, and his first object was to speed 
as fast and as far as possible from those who 
had been so lately his companions and allies. 

So he watched with anxious eyes the diminish- 
ing store of parched corn and strips of deer meat, 
while he listened with all his senses alert for the 
echoing war-whoop that might betoken the pres- 
ence of a foe in his vicinity. 

The waters upon which they journeyed, now 
southerly, now westerly, widened as they pro- 
ceeded. The ever widening reaches of the stream 
flowed smoothly through dense forests. These 
were all tender green with the advancing spring, 
and birds and four-footed things were numerous 
in their recesses. Often their ghostly approach 
in the pallid dawn frightened herds of elk and 
moose from the banks of the river, or sent the 
wild birds fluttering in frightened flocks. More 
than once Rushing Water laid his hand on his 
rifle, but caution restrained him, and he refrained 
from the tempting target. 

But the provision bags were empty at last and 
they were still in a land where the crash of a 
rifle might bring the warriors upon them. An- 
other expedient must be found. The wood train- 
ing of the man stood him in good stead now. 
Valerie saw him one morning returning to the 


150 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


canoe in which she was just waking, with a long 
wand in his hand. That day, as they hid among 
the trees, he cut a piece of deer-hide into long, 
thin ribbons, which he slowly and carefully braided 
into a cord. Then he noted the ends of the thick 
rod, and exerting his great strength he bent it 
against his knee. By signs he made her under- 
stand that he wished her to fasten the ends of his 
cord to the extremities of the wand. With a 
smile of comprehension, she fitted the string to his 
improvised bow. He bound the ends in securely, 
and with another piece of deer-skin fashioned an 
arrow rest. The rest of the day he spent in cut- 
ting and trimming arrows. He hardened the 
points of these over a fire he had built on a 
rock. When he had finished a dozen of these 
shafts, he carefully stowed them in the boat 
with his improvised bow, and then laboriously 
set to work to cover up his trail. The 
tree he had chopped down with his war hatchet 
had been cut from its roots a few inches below 
the ground. Into the hole Rushing Water thrust 
the leaves and unused branches. Over them he 
piled the earth and screened the fresh clay with 
dried leaves and dead twigs, so artfully placed 
that even a practised eye would not suspect that 
they had not fallen as they lay. 

The remains of the fire were similarly buried 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Hi 

and covered up. It was evening when this labor- 
ious task was at an end. As the man and the girl 
entered the canoe to resume their journey, Rush- 
ing Water’s brow was puckered with perplexity. 
At last his eyes brightened and he reached up and 
took the lone eagle feather from his scalp-lock. 
For a minute he looked at it thoughtfully. Then 
with a sigh and a shrug of his shoulders, he fitted 
it in the slit he had cut in the butt of one of his 
arrows. He was discarding his chieftain’s badge, 
and there was a look in his face that showed he 
knew it was forever. What his future might be, 
there was no means of his knowing, but the only 
path that might seem open to an outcast Indian 
was a lonely life in forests far from those in which 
his own people dwelt. 

Valerie noted the look, and although she could 
not fathom its cause, she knew intuitively that 
some pang attended the sacrifice of the feather. 
Her own eyes grew soft with sympathy. The 
lonely river was rosy in the light from a scarlet 
sky, and she was very beautiful in the soft pink 
glow. Rushing Water, raising his eyes from his 
work, surprised her glance fixed upon him. A soft 
blush deepened the glow in her cheeks. The chief 
flung down his arrow and seizing his paddle thrust 
it into the river. 

Fish, caught while she was still asleep, fur- 


152 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


nished a breakfast for Valerie the next morning. 
With his corn and dried meat gone, her protector 
was compelled to venture another fire by the neces- 
sity of cooking fresh food. He had cleaned the 
fresh-caught fish and was broiling it on the embers 
when she opened her eyes. After the meal, Rush- 
ing Water bade the girl remain by the canoe while 
he slipped into the woods. At the water’s edge 
where the bank bowed in just below them, a cow 
moose and her calf were feeding. Valerie, watch- 
ing, saw Rushing Water glide out of the forest 
at the other horn of the crescent. His bow and 
arrow were in his hand. She saw him fit the shaft 
to the bow. Then slowly he drew the string upon 
which the arrow butt rested across his body and 
back to his right shoulder, his left hand gripping 
the bent bow in the middle. The string was re- 
leased and the arrow sped. The marksmanship 
was perfect. The calf, pierced just back of the 
shoulder, staggered and fell. The cow lifted a 
frightened head, snuffed the morning air, and 
plunged into the woods. 

Rushing Water killed the wounded calf with his 
knife and retrieved the arrow. Swiftly and deftly 
he skinned the game and quartered it. The meat 
served for the noon and evening meals, and pro- 
vided a store against the morrow. The follow- 
ing day Rushing Water managed to bring down 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


153 


a wild duck, which not only served as food but 
furnished him with feathers for his other arrows. 
That evening as they prepared for their nocturnal 
voyage, Valerie smilingly pointed her finger at 
her companion. 

“Eau!” she said. 

The young man glanced at the river and smiled. 

“Elan,” said Valerie, still pointing at him. 

“Elan d y Eaur 

In her eagerness she leaned forward and there 
fell from the bosom of her jacket a little golden 
crucifix, the chain of which encircled her neck. As 
the sunlight glinted upon it, Rushing Water 
started, his eyes alight with curiosity. 

“Totem !” he said pointing at the glittering 
symbol which lay upon her breast. 

She took the cross in her hand. 

“Ah!” she said, “the cross.” 

“The cross,” the chief repeated. 

Then he paddled out into the dusk, his face very 
thoughtful. 

They were six days on their journey now and 
Rushing Water’s vigilance began to relax. Al- 
though he still deemed it prudent to travel by 
night, he was less careful in covering his trail. 
Valerie was losing her fear of the wilderness when 
she received a sudden notice that its dangers 
were still real and close at hand. Beaching his 


154 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


bark one morning, Rushing Water made the usual 
preparations for sleep. His canoe hidden, he 
advanced into the woods, prepared the morning 
meal, and, after it had been eaten, threw him- 
self on the ground for rest. The girl, who had 
slept during the night journey, sat beside him, on 
guard. Almost instantly Rushing Water slept. 
The morning sun slowly mounted, flecking with 
gold the carpeted forest. The hum of birds and 
insects made drowsy music. Save for this the 
woods seemed silent, lonely, void of human life. 

All fear lulled, Valerie watched the brilliant 
wild flowers, and dreamed of her far-away home. 
Suddenly, as her glance lifted to follow the flight 
of a yellow butterfly, a cold chill shot through her 
breast. From behind a tree trunk a rifle pro- 
truded, and above it glistened a pair of cruel, 
black eyes, set in a dark face. The Indian, meet- 
ing her glance, stepped from his cover, his piece 
covering the sleeping warrior. A half smothered 
cry broke from Valerie. At the sound Rushing 
Water sprang to his feet but the rifle was pressed 
against his chest, and he had no need to question 
the intent in the gleaming eyes above it. He threw 
up his hand in the Indian signal of peace, but the 
stranger did not lower his rifle. 

“Who is the warrior with the white captive ?” 
he asked. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


155 

Valerie listened eagerly to the words, none of 
which she understood. 

“Minnesink !” answered the Ottawawa. 

“Of what nation?” 

“Of the people of the Otter.” 

“Ha! Pontiac’s son?” 

A light of satisfaction gleamed in the stranger’s 
eyes. 

“It is true,” Rushing Water answered. 

A sneer curled the lip of the rifleman. 

“We have heard among the Illinois that the 
Ottawawas are on the war-path?” he said. 

“It is true.” 

“And that the son of the great chief of the 
North turned traitor to his people, and let a 
white maiden take him captive. This is she?” 

Rushing Water ignored the taunt. He had 
been studying shrewdly the features of the Illi- 
nois brave. Now, instead of a direct reply he 
began a narrative. 

“Once,” he said, “there was an Illinois warrior 
taken by Pontiac’s people. He was doomed to 
run the lane of death. A boy of the Ottawawas 
gave him drink and food, and comfort in his 
need.” 

The Illinois leaned forward eagerly, studying 
the features of the man against whose breast his 
rifle was pressed. An instant amazement and un- 


156 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

belief struggled in his eyes. Then his rifle 
dropped to the ground. 

“The dream face!” he cried. 

Rushing Water made no reply. 

The Illinois plucked from his belt knife and 
hatchet and held them out. 

“My life belongs to my brother,” he said. 

“He wants it now no more than he wanted it 
then,” said Rushing Water, waving back the 
proffered weapons. “But let my brother say what 
he does in these woods.” 

“I am a runner. I go to say to the great chief 
of the Ottawawas that my people hasten to join 
him before Detroit.” 

“How far behind you is the war party?” 

“Three sleeps,” the runner replied. “They 
come in canoes. Let my brother beware; they 
are not in his debt.” 

“Rushing Water thanks his brother,” said the 
young warrior. “He will be wary. Farewell!” 

He bent his head gravely. 

“Farewell!” said the Illinois. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE ISLAND 

Valerie, crouched low in the canoe and cold 
with apprehension, breathed a little tremulous 
sigh of relief as Rushing Water’s shadow fell 
across the boat. He stepped noiselessly to his 
place at the stern, his finger laid across his lips 
to enjoin silence upon the girl. Carefully he 
shoved the boat from the beach, and, without 
using his paddle, let it silently drift with the cur- 
rent, his glance sweeping up and down the river 
bank and his rifle across his knees. They had 
drifted an hour before he let his weapon slip to the 
bottom of the canoe and seized the paddle. With 
a quick and steady stroke, he accelerated the speed 
of the bark, his restless glance shifting from the 
banks by which they slowly traveled to the broad 
reaches of water above and below. Alarmed by 
his conduct, Valerie at length broke the silence. 
In answer to the question that was more intelli- 
gible to him by her tone than by the words she 
used, Rushing Water said: 

157 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


158 

“Indian!” 

The old look of terror returned to the girl’s 
brown eyes. 

“How many?” she asked. 

Rushing Water shook his head. 

The girl lay back in the canoe, while Rushing 
Water steadily propelled them down the stream. 
At last she heard him give utterance to a low cry 
of satisfaction, and raising her head saw a heav- 
ily wooded island splitting the current in the cen- 
ter of the stream. Again taking his rifle across 
his knees, the young man warily approached the 
island. Several times he made its circuit in con- 
stantly narrowing circles, ready to take flight at 
the first indication of the presence of Indians in 
its boskage. Even when he shot the brow of his 
boat at last under the overhanging branches, 
whose leaves trailed in the water, he proceeded 
with the utmost caution. Pulling his bark out on 
the beach, he signed to the girl not to move, and 
slipped quietly in among the trees. When he re- 
turned to the boat he had explored the entire isl- 
and and satisfied himself that it was uninhabited. 
Then he began the preparation for the morning 
meal. 

Rushing Water’s examination of the secluded 
piece of land determined his future conduct. At 
the easterly end it was buttressed against the 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


i59 


stream by two huge boulders, great monuments 
of the glacial drift deposited in the river-bed ages 
ago. Against these the current rolled with con- 
siderable force, the waters being thrust to right 
and left. Behind the boulders the eddies of cen- 
turies had builded up the island of rich, alluvial 
soil in which every seed had taken quick root and 
every tree had flourished. Birch, wild maple, 
towering pines and great spreading oaks formed 
its crowded arborage. The soil was covered with 
pine needles and dead leaves, and, except round 
the border where there was a thick fringe of wild 
laurel and tangled berry bushes, the island was 
free of underbrush. At the westerly end of the 
island, which was some three hundred feet in 
length, two prongs were extended between which 
lay a quiet basin. The southerly prong reached 
out toward the south bank of the river and the 
telltale ripple indicated to the forest-trained eyes 
of Rushing Water the existence of a probable 
ford between the island at this point and the 
mainland. 

The young man moored his canoe in the basin 
and made preparations for a stay of several days 
on the island. Piecing out his meager store of 
French with quick, descriptive pantomime, he 
managed to convey to the mind of Valerie the 
predicament in which they were. It had occurred 


160 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

to him to elude Pontiac’s allies, ascending the 
river in force, by making a detour through the 
forest, but two considerations argued against 
such a course. In the first place the canoe would 
have to be abandoned, and the strength and en- 
durance and fitness for the hardship of a forest 
trial of the white girl in his charge were unknown 
quantities in the mind of the young warrior. 
Again the danger of discovery by the Indians was 
greater among the trees than upon the river, 
where there was a considerable area of unob- 
structed view. The island afforded a refuge with 
a reasonable promise of security. The need of 
game sufficient for the sustenance of a considerable 
war party would incline the red men to prefer 
the mainland for encampment rather than a small 
island. The covert was thick, and there was no 
reason why the advancing Illinois should suspect 
the presence, in their near vicinity, of an enemy 
or a victim. 

So for two days the little boat floated in the 
secluded basin and the young man and the young 
woman dwelt in the shade of the great trees. Dur- 
ing these two days Valerie added considerably to 
Rushing Water’s knowledge of French. She had 
impressed upon him the name Elan d’Eau, which 
was her French version of his Indian appellation, 
and he had accepted the title with a grave smile. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 161 

Now, as he lay on the pine needles at her little, 
moccasined feet while she sat resting her back 
against a tree trunk, there was a soft swish of 
wings and a brilliant little bird flashed across 
their vision. Raising himself on his elbow Rush- 
ing Water pointed to the beautiful little denizen of 
the woods. 

“You,” he said, with one of his rare smiles. 
“You, humming bird.” 

The color deepened in the girl’s cheeks, but 
she laughed happily as she accepted the compli- 
ment. 

The sun was descending into the heart of the 
western forest when Rushing Water climbed a 
huge oak that grew almost in the center of the 
island, to sweep with his eyes the westerly reaches. 

Far down upon the waters some moving, dark 
spots attracted his attention. As he watched, these 
slowly took form until he could count six long 
canoes breasting the river. Gradually they ap- 
proached until he could distinguish the forty-eight 
painted warriors who manned them. 

They came abreast of the island at last, keeping 
steadily on their course in the northerly channel. 
Leaving Valerie beside the canoe, Rushing Water, 
who had descended from his perch in the oak, kept 
pace with them on the bank. He breathed a sigh 
of relief when they passed the foaming eddies 


i6i 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


swirling against the rocky buttress that formed the 
northern wall. Stretching himself at full length 
behind one of the protecting rocks, he followed 
with his glance the receding canoes. 

They were small in his vision and far away, 
when through the woods behind him there rang 
out on the air a scream of terror. The cruel, high, 
ringing, exultant whoop of several Indian voices 
followed it like a hideous echo. Springing to his 
feet, the young warrior plunged into the forest 
gloom, speeding as fleet as a deer toward the spot 
where he had left Valerie. He had need of all 
his speed. 

Thinking the danger had passed, Valerie had 
imprudently stepped out of the covert of under- 
brush. Two hunters of the Illinois tribe, who had 
been skulking along the southerly shore, caught 
a glimpse of the little figure with the flood of 
chestnut hair, glorious in the evening flush. In- 
stantly they came toward her, fording the shal- 
lows. She saw them when they were halfway 
across, and her terror broke from her throat in 
that one long scream that had startled Rushing 
Water at his post among the rocks. She turned to 
run up the little finger of soil, which the island 
thrust out into the river, but before she reached 
the shelter of the woods the Indians were upon 
her. As the foremost of them reached forward to 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 163 

grasp her, however, a rifle bullet struck him full 
on the brow, and with sprawling, outstretched 
hands, he lurched forward on his face. The sec- 
ond brave checked himself in full career, and 
looked up to discover the source of the unexpected 
attack. As he did so, Rushing Water’s war- 
hatchet hissed through the air and struck him full 
on the chest, its blade cleaving his breast bone. 
An instant he stood, his arms outstretched, his 
scalping knife clattering to the stones of the beach. 
Then his body quivered and crumpled and sank, a 
shapeless corpse. Turning the body over, Rush- 
ing Water recovered his bloody weapon. Then 
with a sweep of his arm, he crushed the little 
form of the French girl to his side and ran with 
her to the canoe. Dropping her in the bottom 
of the boat, he grasped the paddle and began his 
flight. 

Behind him the wild war-whoops, instinct with 
menace, were rising on the evening air. The 
scream, the exultant cry of their tribesmen, and 
the lashing crack of the rifle had reached the 
ear of the distant Illinois, and in furious hurry 
they came sweeping down the stream. Before 
them sped the lone canoe slipping with ever-in- 
creasing speed through the waters. Looking back, 
from time to time, the fugitive boatman could 
see little spurts of red flame in the gathering dusk 


164 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


and hear the sharp reports of the pursuers’ ri- 
fles. One of the canoes of the Illinois drew ahead 
of the other boats in the hostile flotilla and the 
little spurts of red flame from the muzzles of the 
rifles in this bark became more distinct, while the 
leaden slugs kicked up the spray nearer and nearer 
to the fugitives. Rushing Water put all his 
strength into his arm, and the stroke of his pad- 
dle although losing nothing in length became more 
swift. Still as he looked back over his shoulder 
he saw more and more distinctly the single bark 
that still kept up the pursuit. The others were 
lost in the gloom. 

At last the reason for the exceptional speed of 
this canoe disclosed itself. Instead of the single 
oarsman customary in an Indian war canoe, two 
warriors wielded the paddles in the Illinois boat. 
Despite the utmost effort of Rushing Water they 
were slowly gaining upon him. He could see the 
two other occupants of the boat loading and firing 
their rifles. As he bent over in the exertion of 
propelling his canoe, he spoke to the girl lying at 
the foot of the boat. 

“Can the Humming Bird load a rifle?” he said. 

She nodded her head. Her uncle had taught 
her how to load and handle fire arms. 

“Let the Humming Bird load my rifle,” said the 
warrior. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 165 

She took the rifle in her hands. The powder 
horn was close beside her and removing the plug 
at its point, she let the black grains run into her 
hand, carefully measuring out the customary 
charge. Rushing Water smiled. 

“More,” he said. 

She doubled the charge, and he nodded his 
head in satisfaction. Making a wad of dried 
grass she rammed home the charge and took a 
slug. 

“Two,” Rushing Water directed. 

In obedience to his command she inserted the 
two bullets and packed in the covering wad. Then 
she set the priming charge and laid the rifle on 
the floor of the boat at a point indicated by the 
warrior. 

“Now let the Humming Bird move up toward 
the front,” he said. 

She crawled to the bow of the boat. To her 
surprise Rushing Water suddenly stood up, his 
paddle in his hand and faced the pursuers. In- 
stantly there was a crack of three rifles. The 
warrior threw up his hands and fell backward into 
the canoe. A shrill scream burst from Valerie’s 
lips. He looked up at her quickly, smiling, and 
then she saw his hand close over the rifle. 

The exultant whoops of the pursuing Illinois 
rang loud on the evening air. Still concealed from 


1 66 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


their sight by the stern of the drifting canoe, Rush- 
ing Water turned swiftly. In a flash he was in a 
kneeling position, the barrel of his rifle resting 
on the stern. With a terrific report the double 
charge in his weapon exploded. Precisely at the 
water line of the Illinois canoe the cedar splin- 
tered. The young warrior clutched his paddle 
and swiftly drove it into the stream. Behind him 
the bow of the pursuers’ boat settled swiftly. The 
double slugs had torn a great hole just at the water 
line, and the river was pouring into the bark. In 
a few minutes the Illinois were swimming in the 
stream. The weight of their heavy war equip- 
ment had sunk their damaged boat. 

Even as the stricken canoe sank, a sudden gloom 
blotted out the sun. Vast columns of clouds 
crowded up from the south with great, foaming 
forefront and flashing fire hearts, and a long, low 
roll of thunder broke the twilight silence of the 
woods. Short angry puffs whipped the surface 
of the waters. At last blackness swept down upon 
them, sudden and deep, torn by ragged flashes of 
lightning and vibrant with the crash of thunder, 
peal upon peal. Like a torrent the rain fell. 

Drenched and frightened by her narrow escape, 
the quick pursuit, and now the wild crashing of 
this elemental outburst, Valerie crept back through 
the wet darkness and reached out her hand until 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


167 


it rested upon the moccasined foot of Rushing 
Water. He bent down so that he might see her 
face in the darkness. 

“You are frightened?” he asked. 

“Not now,” she said. 

“There is no cause for fear now,” he assured 
her. “The storm will drive the Illinois back. The 
Humming Bird is safe.” 

“Thanks to the brave Indian,” she answered. 
“You are Humming Bird’s warrior.” 


CHAPTER XV 


THE SILVER FOX 

The spring afternoon was on the wane. Rush- 
ing Water, stretched on the carpet of pine needles, 
slept, his breast rising and falling regularly and 
smoothly. Beside him Valerie sat watching over 
his rest. They had sought a covert that day some 
yards in from the river bank. Their rude camp 
was on the edge of a little natural clearing of some 
few acres, beyond which the trees towered, their 
green plumes tossing in the breeze. 

Valerie, who had slumbered in the canoe most 
of the night while her warrior plied his steady 
stroke, was on guard, now that he took his rest. 
Through the trees she looked out on the unshaded 
stretch of grass, watching the birds that rose in 
swarms from its vivid green blades. Suddenly 
she started. A swift silent thing had hurtled 
through the trees between her and the clearing. 
It came and went in an instant — just a flash of 
silver gray. The girl was recovering her com- 
168 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


169 


posure when she heard a faint distant chorus of 
low snarling howls. It grew louder until her 
hand reached out to awaken Rushing Water, so 
close at hand it seemed. Then there streaked 
across her astonished vision a succession of 
gaunt gray forms. The broad, low-hung muz- 
zles, the lolling, red tongues, and gleaming fangs 
affrighted her. Before her hand touched the 
arm of the sleeping warrior they were gone, 
and she breathed freely again. For a while the 
forest was silent. But soon the leaves stirred 
again and the streak of silver gray flashed before 
her eyes. Again the snarling yelp of the wolf 
pack frightened her. She noticed that this time 
the interval between the hunted and the hunters 
was shorter. The line of flight was a few feet 
farther away from her and nearer to the clearing. 

Valerie wondered at the recurrence of the in- 
cident under her eyes. She had not yet identified 
the little hunted thing, but she knew that the great 
lean pursuers were the fierce, hungry gray wolves 
of the North American wild. Although they tra- 
versed the woods with incredible speed, the size 
of the pack gave her an opportunity to see them. 
Their bodies, full five feet in length, stretched in 
their headlong flight seemed even longer, so thin 
they were, and their tails, giving them an addi- 
tional measure of two feet, lay extended in a 


170 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


straight line. The body was a rough grizzled 
gray, the under body a dull yellow. 

When it appeared before her the third time, 
the hunted animal was at the very edge of the 
clearing and as it circled back on the opposite 
side, Valerie saw it break into the open. She now 
saw that it was a beautiful little animal, with long 
pointed muzzle and a handsome coat of soft fur, 
black at the neck and shoulders and ringed with 
silver at the back and haunches. The bushy tail 
was tipped with white. The pursuing wolves were 
close behind now, their red jaws agape. Valerie 
shuddered. 

“Humming Bird is frightened,” said a deep 
voice beside her. The girl started. Her interest 
in the pursuit had become so intense that she had 
almost forgotten her companion. As she looked 
round at the sound of his voice, she saw that he 
was sitting up, his eyes upon her. 

“See!” she said, nodding toward the clearing. 

The chase was getting quicker, closer, out there 
in the open. The fox still kept a short lead, but 
behind his flying tail the ravenous pack closed in. 
The wolves were led by a gigantic beast whose 
loose, wide jaws were dripping froth. The pant- 
ing of the beasts was like a sob on the quiet air. 

True to the strange habit of his species, the 
fugitive fox ran in circles, narrowing their diame- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


171 

ter with each frantic turn. The wolves leaped 
nearer and nearer the beautiful silver flanks. 
Watching the forest tragedy with wide, fascinated 
eyes, Valerie’s breath came in quick gasps. There 
was but a few feet of daylight now between the 
white-tipped brush and the red muzzle of the 
leader of the pack. 

“Oh, save him! Save him!” the girl cried as 
she turned her eyes away in horror. 

“Let the Humming Bird not fear,” the warrior 
answered. “Watch!” 

He had plucked his bow from the ground and 
was fitting a feathered shaft to the string. She 
saw the sinews of his left wrist stiffen as his fingers 
closed on the bow. The long rippling muscles 
slipped back under the satin skin of his right fore- 
arm, the supple biceps rounded out, and the shoul- 
der muscles coiled like bands of steel as he drew 
the string back so that the shaft crossed his deep 
chest. An instant he stood poised, the left moc- 
casin advanced, the left knee slightly flexed, the 
straight line of the extended right leg running true 
to the incline of the magnificent body. His eye 
sighted the resting arrow. Valerie gasped at the 
picture, so graceful, so sure, so splendidly virile. 
Then the fingers parted and the loosened bow 
string sang. Swiftly she turned to follow with 
her glance the arrow’s flight. She saw the silver 


172 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


fox staggering on its last turn, and, close behind, 
the huge gray body of the leading wolf rising for 
the final death spring. Into the exposed gray 
throat the pointed shaft drove and the beast, with 
a spurt of red blood gushing from the wound, 
crumpled and fell, and rolled over and over on 
the ground. Instantly the scent of fresh blood was 
in the keen nostrils of the pack, and while the 
wounded giant was tearing with his paws at the 
feathered dart, his companions leaped on him, 
rending his still living body with their cruel fangs. 

The silver fox, panting and staggering, gained 
the edge of the wood where Rushing Water stood 
with a fresh arrow on the string and his toma- 
hawk in his belt. With a little, exhausted whine 
it sank across the moccasins of Rushing Water. 

Valerie covered her eyes with her hands, but 
the warrior stood fingering the butt of his shaft 
and watching the fighting wolves. When their 
raging showed signs of abatement, he singled out 
another gray form and again his bow string sang. 
A second victim fed the survivors. 

The sun had gone down behind the trees. 

“Come!” said Valerie, with a little shudder. 

They walked to the river bank. Rushing Water 
drew the canoe from its hiding place in the weeds 
and showed its nose on the bank. Valerie stepped 
into it. At her very heels the silver fox, which 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


i73 


had followed them to the beach, jumped over the 
side and sank, trembling, on the floor of the little 
bark. Rushing Water’s hand shot out to grasp it 
by the scruff, but the girl stopped him. 

“No! No!” she cried. “Do not — they will 
get it.” . 

Rushing Water smiled gently. 

“Like the Humming Bird,” he said, pointing to 
the little creature. 

“Yes,” she answered, “I have been hunted, too.” 

Again the young man smiled. 

“The Humming Bird need not fear,” he said. 
“Her warrior shall keep her from the wolves. 
Let the silver fox stay.” 

He stepped into the bark and thrust it out on 
the darkening river. All night long as he beat 
the water with the cedar blade, the fox lay in 
the boat. But when next morning he made the 
beach, the little animal leaped over the side and 
darted into the woods. 

“Oh!” cried Valerie in surprise, “he is gone!” 

Rushing Water nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered. “The silver fox feared 
the wolves no longer, so he fled away. It is the 
way of the fox. Yet,” he added thoughtfully, 
“there may be other wolves. He were safer did 
he stay with the warrior who could protect him.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


NEW ORLEANS 

Bad news traveled fast in Colonial America, as 
elsewhere, and within a few weeks of Pontiac’s 
appearance in force before the rude walls of 
Detroit, the vast reaches of lonely forest were 
electrified with fast flying reports of war and 
massacre. The “dwellers in the long house” of 
the Iroquois, long time friends of the English and 
irreconcilable foes of the Algonquin blood, fur- 
nished forest runners to carry afar the intelli- 
gence of disaster and the call for aid. Traveling 
light and lonely, with bare bodies and swift, un- 
wearying limbs, these couriers of the wilderness 
sped through the deep gloom of the primeval 
arborage to the English strongholds of the east 
and south. In the nearer settlements there was 
hasty arming and the sending forth of relief expe- 
ditions. Colonial militia and regular troops of the 
British forces in America, with their dark flank- 
ing clouds of native auxiliaries, took the forest 
trails for the beleaguered outposts in the north- 
174 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


175 


west. Over their heads and beyond them to the 
shores of the Atlantic and the Gulf, the wave 
of intelligence spread, runners carrying it from 
settlement to settlement, until not only the Eng- 
lish colonists along the Atlantic, but the Spaniards 
in Florida and the French in Louisiana heard of 
the fire that was raging in the forests of the 
north. 

Many distant homes were filled with anxiety 
and grief, because in nearly all these settlements 
were the kin and loved ones of men whose adven- 
turous spirits and hunger for gain led them into 
the wild woods. 

One such home overlooked the crescent bend of 
the Mississippi at New Orleans. It was a fine, 
roomy structure set upon a patch of exquisitely 
kept greensward, that sloped back from the levee 
some few squares above the “Place d’ Armes.” 
Great spreading shade trees flanked it, and rich 
flower gardens gave evidence of the taste of those 
who dwelt therein. This was the home of Rene 
de Boncour, American resident member of the 
opulent fur-trading house of Poiret de Boncour y 
Cie of Bordeaux and New Orleans. This was the 
residence he had builded in the new world twenty 
years before, when he brought his bride out from 
France to share his life in the settlement. His 
only daughter, Valerie, had been born under its 


176 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


roof, as had her two brothers, Raoul, now a 
slender, muscular youth of nineteen, and Gaspare, 
over whose careless, boyish head his fifteenth sum- 
mer was passing. There was a great room in the 
upper story of the house reserved for Rene de 
Boncour’s brother, and occupied by that famous 
hunter and woodsman during his not very fre- 
quent and not very long visits to the little French 
City. 

It was from this safe and pleasant abode that 
Valerie had set out in the preceding autumn to 
accompany her uncle on one of his expeditions 
up to the great river. Rene had hesitated when 
she begged permission to make this journey, but 
the girl, who adored her heroic uncle, and held 
in her small body much of the spirit of adven- 
ture that animated his iron frame, induced her 
doting mother to join in her appeal, and at last 
the father’s obduracy melted and he gave reluctant 
consent. 

The news of the outbreak in the lake country, 
therefore, carried peculiar anguish into this home. 
The father heard it with a whitening face. He 
slowly walked from the little coffee house near 
the barracks, where the dread tidings had reached 
him, to his home. As the scene on his own front 
portico greeted his eyes, he paused and stood a 
moment with his hands clenched until the nails 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


177 


cut the palms. Gaspare was playing in one shaded 
corner with two little negro slave boys. Nearer 
the door a lady sat bending over a spinning wheel. 
Although her cheeks were still rounded and her 
eyes bright with the light of an inextinguish- 
able youth, a few of the ringlets that escaped from 
her dainty muslin cap showed traces of gray. 
Rene de Boncour set his teeth and started for- 
ward. The sound of his footfall upon the steps 
of the porch attracted the woman’s attention and 
she looked up with a glad, bright smile. At the 
sight of his face, set and gray, the smile faded 
from her countenance and her lips began to quiver. 

“Rene,” she asked, her voice tremulous, “what 
— what is the matter? Valerie ” 

Her husband put one arm around her neck and 
drew her head to his breast. 

“My poor little girl,” he said, “it may be that 
God has sent to you and to me a very great tribu- 
lation. There is frightful news from the lake 
country whither Valerie went.” 

With a sudden gesture the woman threw up 
her arms and clung to his neck. 

“Oh, no!” she cried. “Oh, it cannot be! My 
little girl, my baby girl !” 

A fit of trembling seized her. 

“Listen,” he said, holding her close to him. “It 
would be cruel to tell you there is hope, for I 


i7« 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


fear there is no hope. The news is that Venango 
was taken and that all were slain. Listen, little 
mother, all who were there were slain. There 
is no captivity, no torture ; no foul thing can 
happen to your little girl.” 

He whispered this bitter consolation in tones 
of the deepest tenderness and he was glad when 
her arms relaxed, and but for the hold of his own 
she would have fallen in the faintness that had 
blotted out a consciousness too full of agony for 
her to bear. Two slaves were called and they 
carried the stricken mother to her room. 

So the blow fell at New Orleans. It trans- 
formed Rene de Boncour from the gayest-hearted 
among the settlers to the saddest and most silent. 
Although hopeless of the result, the rich trader 
organized a considerable party of woodsmen to 
search the northern forests, and this expedition 
led by his son Raoul left New Orleans for the 
north on the day following the arrival of the 
news of the tragedy. Then the bereaved father 
took up again the routine of his life. 

He was a stout, bald man. His features lacked 
the lean gauntness of those of his brother, as his 
frame lacked the iron endurance and silken 
strength of that renowned wood-rover. He had 
been noted among his friends as a genial, glad- 
hearted man, shrewd and fortunate in his bush 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


179 

ness ventures and happy in such of the comforts 
of civilization as the little city afforded. 

Six weeks had passed since the receipt at New 
Orleans of the tidings from the north, and the 
heat of August lay heavy upon the southern land. 
With the rising sun a slight breeze sprang up from 
the Mexican Gulf, rippling the glowing surface 
of the river. Some fifty yards off the levee, in 
front of de Boncour’s warehouses, a brig lay at 
anchor. Her high bow breasted the current, and 
as she swayed under the impulse of the morning 
breeze her tall masts and wide-spreading yard- 
arms cast wriggling reflections on the flowing 
waters. 

Early as it was, there were signs of life and 
activity on board the great ship, and also the 
crest of the levee. A dozen negro slaves were 
lowering bales of cotton and furs, taken from the 
squat warehouse, into flat-bottomed barges, by 
means of which they were transferred to the ship’s 
side. There, there was creaking of tackle, and the 
faint echo of a sailorman’s chantey as the wind- 
lass turned and the bales were lifted over the side 
and lowered through the open hatches. De Bon- 
cour stood superintending the work of loading the 
vessel, one of his overseers at his side. He was 
clothed in white linen, his broad-brimmed straw 


180 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

hat was held in his hand, while he mopped the 
perspiration from his brow and head with a large 
kerchief. Suddenly the young man at his side 
started. Looking out over the river sweep he had 
seen a canoe turning the bend. 

“Monsieur,” he cried, “look, look! In the 
name of God, look!” 

De Boncour’s quick eyes were raised. The canoe 
was in plain sight. It held two figures, — one at 
the stern, paddling steadily, was that of an Indian; 
the other, facing them, was that of a girl whose 
countenance was alight with joy and whose arms 
stretched toward them. With a great cry the 
trader recognized his lost daughter. 

“Run,” he said to his overseer, “run, Pierre, 
and fetch Madame de Boncour. Tell her to fly, 
that Valerie is come ! Oh, great God be thanked ! 
Valerie has come!” 

Swiftly the canoe cleft the waters until it reached 
the levee, whereon father and mother now knelt 
with radiant faces in thankful prayer, while be- 
hind them little Gaspare voiced his boyish delight 
in wild whoops of joy, and an ever growing circle 
of negro slaves gathered to look on, their black 
faces shining. 

Within a few minutes Valerie was in her 
mother’s arms, while Rushing Water in more than 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 181 

a little amazement was enduring the frantic em- 
brace of a stout, bald-headed man, who had 
kissed him on both cheeks and was now weeping 
upon his breast. 


CHAPTER XVII 


HOME 

After their escape from the war party of the 
Illinois on the Ohio, Rushing Water and Valerie 
managed to evade the notice of hostiles. Their 
journey proceeded peacefully as they gradually 
floated out of the danger zone. The Ohio’s cur- 
rent swung them out into the majestic flood of 
the father of waters, whose windings they fol- 
lowed through the fertile southern land. Bred on 
the lakes, Rushing Water was now traveling, for 
the first time, through a land of less rigorous 
climate, and he eagerly noted the increasing 
warmth of the sun, the widening varieties of four- 
footed and feathered life, the richening vegeta- 
tion that showed in the color and diversity of 
form of tree and flower. 

Blossoms strange to his sight made the river 
banks gorgeous under the flecked sunshine sifting 
down through the brilliant and abundant foliage. 
Broad waving savannahs of blue grass broke at 
times the continuity of the emerald forest, and 
182 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


183 


Rushing Water watched in wonder the ripple of 
the breeze over the surface of the wide swards 
under the golden sunshine, and the clouds of birds 
that rose from the covert and streaked across 
the azure sky. Tender, mysterious tints hung like 
fire shot veils on the remote horizon. Graceful 
palms, standing alone against the sky on the river 
bank, delighted the eye of the stranger. Strange 
beasts, too, showed themselves in the new world. 
In place of the moose or elk of his native wilds, 
Rushing Water now saw the ferocious bearded 
heads and huge shoulders of bison drinking at the 
river edge. The lynx of the north — “the tree- 
cats,” the Indians called them — gave place to the 
American panther. 

Rushing Water shot a bison and found its 
meat good. Now that he felt free to use his 
rifle, there was no fear of starvation where forest 
and stream were teeming with game. The quick 
and unwearied intelligence of the young man made 
him an apt pupil, and Valerie was surprised at the 
rapidity with which he learned the simple French 
she taught him. His knowledge of her language 
was soon such as to make conversation between 
them less and less difficult. She now called him 
Elan d’ Eau whenever she spoke to him, and 
following her example he used the name when 
speaking of himself. Although he no longer 


184 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


dreaded an attack by hostile Indians, the danger 
in the woods from wild beasts and serpents was 
such that he continued to make his journeys by 
night, camping during the daylight hours upon 
the river bank. 

For this reason he passed, without notice, sev- 
eral white settlements. The first to attract his 
attention, they came upon in the early dawn as 
they were about to end one of their nocturnal 
journeys. It was a little cluster of cabins sur- 
mounting one of the bluffs that occasionally rose 
above the otherwise level line of the river bank. 
Rushing Water started, as the habitations of white 
people broke upon his vision. 

“See,” he said pointing. “See, Humming Bird, 
there are the houses of your people. Elan d’ Eau 
shall leave you there among your own friends.” 

Valerie looked up at him with a question in 
her eyes. 

“And where shall Elan d’ Eau go?” she asked. 

He shrugged his shoulders and swept his hand 
out to the westward. 

“The woods are wide,” he said. 

The little head was shaken quite vigorously and 
decidedly. 

“No, No!” she answered. “Elan d’ Eau shall 
not leave me here and go alone into the wilds. He 
shall take me to the white chief, my father, who 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 185 

shall thank him for what he has done for 
me.” 

“Does the Humming Bird so wish it?” he asked, 
looking at her with a quick, keen glance. 

“She does,” answered Valerie decidedly. 

The young man had let his paddle trail idly 
in the water from the time the village had ap- 
peared. He now caught it in his hands and plied 
it with a long powerful stroke, under whose pro- 
pulsion the canoe shot forward. 

Valerie sat watching him awhile. At last she 
said : 

“When Elan d’Eau saved the Humming Bird 
from the warriors of his own people, did he shut 
the door of his father’s long house against him- 
self?” 

The young man nodded gravely. 

“Forever,” he said. 

Again for a few minutes Valerie was thoughtful. 

“Then why,” she asked, “did the warrior spare 
the white girl?” 

With a slow, grave smile Rushing Water 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“It is hard to tell what you do not know,” he 
answered. “The Indian in war spares none, not 
the warrior, not the squaw, not the babe. It is 
the way with my people. But when Elan d’ Eau 
saw the little ones fall under the tomahawk, and 


1 86 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


the white women scalped after the men had fallen, 
he knew that the power to do those things had 
been taken out of his heart by the Great Spirit. 
When Elan d’ Eau was a boy, it pained him to 
see his mother toiling and his own people were 
angry at him because he would do a squaw’s work. 
There is something here” — he touched his breast 
— “which is different.” 

They did not speak of the matter again, nor 
did Rushing Water again propose to leave the girl 
at any of the white settlements, the appearance 
of which upon the river bank was growing more 
frequent as they fared southward. When they 
reached the sharp turn of the river, as it bends 
to the north just above the city of her birth, 
Valerie recognized the familiar country, but she 
said nothing to her companion. As they entered 
the crescent and the city burst suddenly upon their 
view, she quietly enjoyed the look of amazement 
that spread over the face of the young man. His 
eyes swept along the crest of the levee, dwelt on 
the greensward of the “Place d’ Armes,” rose to 
the spire of the old French church of St. Louis 
in the background, took in the neat little dwellings 
on the well-ordered streets, the canal on its west- 
erly border, and the battlemented walls that pro- 
tected it from attack by land. Then with grow- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 187 

ing astonishment depicted on his features, his gaze 
rested on the vessel aswing on the tide. 

“See,” he said, “the great house on the waters,” 
as he pointed to the bark de Boncour’s slaves were 
loading. 

“That,” said Valerie, “is a ship. It has great 
wings of white cloth which the wind fills, blowing 
it across the big water to the land of the white 
peoples.” 

“A huge canoe,” said Rushing Water, nodding 
with apprehension. “It would hold a hundred 
warriors.” 

“See!” said the girl excitedly, “there is my 
father on the shore. Ah! he sees us, he is send- 
ing for mother! See, she comes running down 
to the bank! Take me to them quickly, Elan 
d’ Eau!” 

In obedience to her command, Rushing Water 
steered the bow of his canoe in toward the levee, 
and soon witnessed that joyful greeting between 
the fond parents and the child they believed to 
have been lost. 

The first transports of joy over, de Boncour 
hurried with the little party into his home. There 
the father and mother and little Gaspare sat listen- 
ing, with breathless interest, to Valerie’s tale of 
her danger and her escape. Rushing Water stood 
silently beside her chair as she spoke. When the 


1 88 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

story was ended at last, the mother looked up at 
him with grateful eyes, and the father wrung him 
warmly by the hand. 

“And so, little girl, you have come back to 
us,” he said, turning to Valerie. “Jules is dead. 
God rest him, for he was a brave man.” 

The shadow which had come into his eyes at 
the mention of his brother’s name, was soon dis- 
sipated, however, so deep was his joy in the re- 
covery of his daughter. 

“Come,” he said, “you must be famished. 
Mother, have the breakfast brought. We shall 
feast, indeed, this morning. Our Indian hero, he 
shall sit at the head of the table.” 

He turned with a smile, looking for Rushing 
Water, but the young man was no longer in the 
room. He had taken advantage of the diversion 
of attention from himself to noiselessly glide from 
the apartment. 

Rushing to the porch, de Boncour saw him 
stepping over the levee. Although the trader 
called to him, he did not come back. His canoe 
soon vanished round the bend in the river. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE WOOD THRUSH CALL 

Valerie de Boncour’s white pillow held a rest- 
less little head. The silky, auburn tresses were 
in a sad rumple and the big brown eyes were soft 
with the mist of unshed tears, when the window 
curtain began to whiten with the coming of the 
day. Under her snowy night drapery her heart 
was troubled with a strange unease. Her first 
day in the city had been filled with the delight 
of the home-coming, the beaming happiness of 
her mother’s face, the boisterous glee of Gas- 
pare, the gay volubility of her father, the salute 
of gathering friends; young men’s cordial and 
gayly complimentary welcome and the tearfully 
happy embraces of girl friends. A weary little 
head had touched a soft pillow to sink into imme- 
diate slumber. The next morning she had spent 
among the bright flowers of her beloved garden, 
the afternoon with Adoree and Babette Vatreuil 
at the Vatreuil place, some squares away. But 
the night had come and with it an inexplicable 
sense of loneliness. She found her mind much 


190 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


occupied with the face and figure of Elan d’ Eau. 
Many times she shook her little head in a physi- 
cal effort to rid her mind of his disquieting 
memories, but he went not for shakings of a wil- 
ful little head. Even when she escaped him in 
waking consciousness, he glided unbidden into her 
dreams. So the restless night hours, patterned 
in disturbing dreams and memories, marched their 
slow procession through the little sleeping cham- 
ber, until the dark trailing robe of the last of 
them was fringed with a wan and misty blue by 
the fast following dawn. 

In the gloom of Valerie’s room the square of 
her eastern window slowly defined itself. Out- 
side the song birds began their matins. Lazily, 
little Valerie turned on her side to watch the 
growing light and listen to the feathered chor- 
isters’ pure notes of joy. Suddenly, she sat up 
in bed, listening with brightened eyes and quick- 
ened pulses. Through the bubbling chorus there 
rippled like the golden thread on a banner of 
silk the reedy sweetness of the wood thrush 
call. It was a note strange in Louisiana brakes, 
although familiar in the northern arborage. 
Smoothing her rumpled hair, Valerie slipped out 
of bed and hastened to the window. Carefully 
she drew aside the white draperies until the east- 
light shone on her features. The far horizon 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


191 

glowed opalescently, pale with flashing glints. A 
misty star hung in the sky, watching its dancing 
reflection in the nearer reaches of the river. The 
far edge of the wide water blowed with the red 
of dying embers under gray ashes. Where the 
trees clustered, north of the stream, the shadows 
were still deep. 

Against the pale, faint flushing sky a dark fig- 
ure was outlined. Valerie recognized instantly 
the long clean lines of limb and torso, the proud 
lift of the head, although the face was in the 
shadow. As she looked down the wood thrush 
call thrilled forth again. With a glad little smile, 
she answered the signal. Waving his hand Elan 
d’ Eau stepped toward the trees. At the edge 
of the shadow he paused, and again his right hand 
was flung up and out in salutation, grave and 
graceful. Then he vanished in the gloom of the 
trees. 

Valerie returned to her couch, the unease gone 
from her heart. She joined father, mother and 
brother at the breakfast table with the roses 
abloom in her cheeks and her eyes bright. Ma- 
dame de Boncour beamed on her, Gaspare gave 
her a rough, but enthusiastic kiss, and Rene 
looked proudly and happily upon his daughter. 

“Strange,” said the father as he sipped his 
coffee. “Strange that Indian youth to whom we 


192 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


owe so much has completely disappeared. I 
should like to thank him.” The trader sighed. 

“Ah yes, Rene, you must find and reward him,” 
agreed Madame de Boncour. “Nothing we have 
would be too much to bestow on that noble sav- 
age.” 

Valerie’s lips opened, but something con- 
strained her to silence. 

“Ohe! he seems to vanish like a ghost,” com- 
plained Rene. “First Pierre and his gang made 
search. Nothing. Not so much as a footstep. 
Then I paid the Chickasaw chief a good gold 
louis to send his trackers out. Pouf! They might 
as well be blind dogs with a cold in the head. 
Not a trace. Not a broken twig. My dear, it 
is a mystery.” 

But the next morning the wood thrush’s note 
thrilled on the river edge and the dark figure 
stood outlined against the dawn. Again Valerie 
smiled, her little face framed in the window drap- 
eries, again Elan saluted with wide-flung hand, 
and disappeared among the trees. And morn- 
ing after morning thereafter Valerie opened her 
eyes and listened for the signal among the bird 
notes. 

But Rene de Boncour was much perplexed. 
The burden of unredeemed obligation, of inade- 
quately expressed gratitude, lay heavy upon him, 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


i93 

and all his efforts to find the Indian were un- 
availing. 

Some weeks after Valerie’s return, Monsieur 
and Madame Vatreuil and their girls took dinner 
with the de Boncours. Madame Vatreuil, short, 
snappy and explosive, was quite a favorite in 
Rene’s home, and the two girls were devoted 
friends of Valerie. 

“Oh my dears!” the little lady exclaimed ad- 
dressing the dinner table, “but so strange a thing 
did happen this day! So strange, Monsieur de 
Boncour! So strange, Madame de Boncour! So 
strange, my dear children!” 

“Ah, but what was it, Madame Vatreuil?” 
asked Madame de Boncour. 

“I went to church,” began the little lady. 

“Ho-ho!” laughed Monsieur Vatreuil, slapping 
his fat thigh. “So strangely strange is that, an- 
gels of fire ! Why Rene, my comrade, she goes to 
church for Mass, for Vespers, day in, day out! 
Ohe! but a strange, strange thing!” 

Madame de Vatreuil flashed a glance of scorn 
at him. 

“Oh, he so loves to talk, he cannot let me 
begin,” she said. “It was not that I went to 
church that was so strange — Ah no ! I know my 
duty as a Christian, which some do not, lying 
abed Sunday morning, fat and lazy, is it not so? 


194 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


But listen. It was before Vespers and I had 
gone to say a little prayer that my husband might 
not be such a fool, — ohe! M. Vatreuil, a good 
wife am I — and the church was deep in gloom. 
From where I knelt I saw the ruby gleam of 
the altar light and the ghostly outlines of the 
altar. The monstrance shone softly above the 
tabernacle and one of the good fathers knelt be- 
fore it. You could not see his form, for the dark 
and the black of the cassock, you know, but the 
little light shone on the tonsured skull and the 
white hair to his shoulders, like a halo of snow 
it was.” 

“Why, how she talks!” murmured Monsieur 
Vatreuil, looking to his friend de Boncour for 
sympathy. 

“But then came the fright,” Madame Vatreuil 
went on, completely ignoring her husband. “I 
looked to my left and there stood a tall, dark 
shape. Mother of Saints, how I trembled! Then 
the good father turned round and the light ran 
along the silver rim of the crucifix, thrust in his 
girdle. He is old, that priest, and strange in the 
church of St. Louis. Oh, his brow is splendid, 
and his eyes so keen with wrinkles all round, and 
great snow drifts of eyebrows hanging above. 
A little man, too, the father.” 

“Father Poilet, he told me,” said Rene, “that 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


i95 

he had a visitor, Father Reville, who had just 
come down from the Indian country.” 

“So,” nodded Madame Vatreuil, “he it must 
have been. He raised his hand and gave bene- 
diction. Then he took the monstrance and put 
it in the tabernacle, and went away. 

“But as he faced us, I saw the shape beside 
me bend forward. Nay more, he went to the 
chancel rail. And, my dears, he held in his hand 
a crucifix. Under the altar light I saw it, all glit- 
tering like a diamond. And he looked at it and 
then at the gold, cross on the altar cloth. Then 
he turned and went out. But I saw him plainly 
before the altar, and” — she paused for dramatic 
effect — “he was a tall, young Indian savage.” 

“Eh!” exclaimed Rene de Boncour excitedly. 
“An Indian you say, Madame? Then, by the 
crow of a cock, it was he ! Oh yes. This ghost 
of a warrior that saved our Valerie, and van- 
ishes so quickly away.” 

“Well!” gasped Madame Vatreuil, “Now what 
do you think? So! With a crystal rood in his 
hand. Did I not say it was strange? But yes.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE WARRIOR 

In close conference, Rene de Boncour and his 
wife walked up and down the garden path, the 
trader’s hand resting affectionately upon the 
shoulder of the little woman at his side. The 
eyes of Madame de Boncour were troubled, and 
there was a little pucker of worry on the usually 
serene brow of her husband. 

“Ohe, but I never thought of that, dolt that I 
am !” exclaimed Rene — “Of course he was a hand- 
some fellow, and chivalrous as a knight of the 
old times, but the red blood, , the red — the Indian 
blood — Mon Dieu! It would not do — it is not 
for our little girl!” 

“Perhaps,” said Madame de Boncour, looking 
up into his troubled eyes with her own full of 
perplexity, yet seeking a clearer, brighter vision, 
“it may be I am too apprehensive. Valerie said 
nothing to me to indicate that she really loved 
this, Indian, or that her regard for him was other 
than a warm, even passionate gratitude for sav- 
196 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


197 


ing her life at the beginning, and then bringing 
her safely and happily through that wonderful 
journey of so many months back to her home 
and us. , All that she really talked about were 
these mysterious morning signals — wondering 
what they might mean, and how long they might 
continue.” 

“Did you ask her why she had not spoken of 
them when they first began?” asked the father. 

“No, because she explained that she felt 
troubled as to which was the right course to pur- 
sue — whether to withhold the knowledge from us, 
as she knew how anxious we have been to find 
him, or to tell me about the signals, and thus 
betray the secret of one to whom she owes more 
than her life, and who obviously desires to keep 
beyond the reach of our gratitude.” 

“H’m!” Rene murmured. His forehead was 
wrinkled in pained perplexity. 

But while the masculine head of the father was 
laboriously reasoning over the solution, the 
mother’s heart raced to its intuitive answer with 
almost abrupt finality in the words, 

“No, no, I am not too apprehensive. I feel 
that she really loves him, though without know- 
ing it. She is so changed from the sunny, sing- 
ing child of a year ago — she broods, she starts at 
nothing, she is restless night and day, and the 


i-9 8 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


tears are always so near — oh, my little girl, my 
little girl ! ” 

“Come, little mother,” said Rene tenderly, “no 
real harm has been done if she isn’t aware she 
loves him. It is all romance, this affair, from 
beginning to end. Adventure in the wild, rescue, 
protection and mystery, bird calls at dawn, — all 
this is the kind of tinder that sets fire to a girl’s 
heart. Do you not think so, Mamma?” 

She nodded her head with a rueful little smile, 
and responded, 

“Yes, it is true, dear. Our little Valerie left 
us to go north, a child, and went through all this 
experience during the most impressionable period 
of her life. What wonder that she returns to 
us a woman, with an awakened heart and a 
woman’s longing, though in judgment still but a 
child?”. 

“Ah, but, Mother, I don’t feel that her heart 
is really awakened yet. If it were, there would 
be definite action on her part. She would be 
moved to meet him when he calls at dawn, and 
not be content with but a child’s answering signal.” 

“Yes, yes, dear heart,” the tremulous mother 
replied, “but what next — what next? Her rest- 
less little heart will soon awake, and then she 
will recognize and know what now she only feels. 
Just a sudden breath would kindle a flame that 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


199 

you and I would be powerless to stifle. It might 
even come to-morrow — who knows?” 

“Mother, I know,” replied Rene resolutely. 
“Now that I know where to find him, I shall meet 
him myself to-morrow morning, and ” 

“But Rene ” 

“No, no, Mamma, I will not forget all that 
he has done for us, but neither will I forget that 
his blood is red and that there are more ways 
than one to pay a debt of gratitude.” 

So the next morning when Elan d’ Eau stepped 
from the shadow of the trees, he saw advancing 
from the house toward him the stout form of 
Valerie’s father. Folding his arms on his breast, 
he awaited the approach of the trader. Rene 
looking up into his calm, clear eyes, addressed him 
kindly. 

“I am glad to meet my red brother,” he said. 
“I have sought him for a long time.” 

Elan bowed gravely, but made no reply. 

“Why,” asked the white man, “has the young 
warrior hidden himself from his friends?” 

“I am not of the people of my friend, the 
white man,” Elan answered slowly. “The ways 
of the white people are not my ways, and I would 
be a stranger among them.” 

“Yet you saved the white maiden,” the trader 
said, “and her father has a grateful heart. But 


200 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


you speak true when you say you are strange in 
the ways of my people, and I am strange in the 
ways of your people. I do not understand why 
you come each morning to signal beneath the win- 
dow of my daughter.” 

Speaking very gravely, Elan answered : 

“The young warrior,” he said, “has no people. 
He is dead to his tribe. The young warrior has 
but one friend. So he comes each day with the 
dawn to sing with the voice of the thrush, under 
the window of the Humming Bird. Does he do 
a wrong thing?” 

“Yes,” answered Rene positively. “Perhaps not 
according to the ways of the Indian, but wrong 
according to the ways of the white. Listen ! The 
Humming Bird is but a child, and the heart of 
a child is like dried twigs in the forest, easy to 
set on fire. Does my red brother understand?” 

Elan nodded his head without answering. 

“Humming Bird,” Rene went on, eagerly, 
“must dwell in the ways of her own people. She 
is a white girl, my friend is an Indian. Does my 
red brother understand?”, 

Two tears gathered in the eyes of Elan and 
rolled down his cheeks. De Boncour observed 
them with a start of amazement. 

“I have hurt the heart of my red brother,” he 
said, sympathetically. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


201 


Elan d’ Eau remained silent, motionless, while 
the embarrassed and nonplussed Frenchman 
awaited a reply. The young man only turned his 
eyes, glistening with heavy tears, upward toward 
the far window of his Humming Bird. 

“I am sorry — sorry,” finally spoke Rene de 
Boncour, moved more deeply than he cared to 
betray, at the visible sign of grief in an Indian. 
Between men the moment of tears is always tense. 
“But can’t you understand? You must under- 
stand,” he continued, impatient with his own emo- 
tion. “You must go away, else it were better 
you had let my daughter perish under the toma- 
hawks of your tribe. But the father of the Hum- 
ming Bird is not ungrateful. See, this bag of 
gold! You shall be rich among your people. This 
is money — wampum. It will buy you power, 
everything that you could wish. This gold is all 
yours. You deserve it. With it you can reach 
your tribe in safety and be their chief. Take it, 
Elan d’ Eau, and with it our endless gratitude, 
and — depart!” 

He proffered the leather pouch to the young 
man. 

Elan d’ Eau stood motionless, his arms folded 
on his breast, his eyes fixed always on the window 
of his Humming Bird. 

The Frenchman waited, urging the bag of gold. 


202 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“You wish the happiness of the Humming Bird, 
do you not?” Without waiting for a reply, he 
continued. “Her future happiness and welfare 
are all that there is in life for her mother and 
me. From the time she was born we have planned 
for her, and have hoped that some day she would 
marry a man of her own race, in some position of 
honor and trust among his people. She is a child 
yet, and knows nothing of love, or of the respon- 
sibilities of a woman. It would be most unfair, 
a deep hurt to her for you to remain here.” 

Slowly Elan’s eyes turned toward the trader. 

“White man, father of the Humming Bird,” 
finally spoke the young man, “listen! I am an 
Indian. I was born in the wilderness, with things 
that are wild. But wildness is not cruelty. The 
forests hold kindness as well. If I should attempt 
a cruel thing, the Great Spirit would say to my 
heart, no! The things of the forest do not say 
false words, father of the Humming Bird. The 
winds sing a true song among the pines, back there 
in the north. The voice of Rushing Water is 
not a lie.” 

The Frenchman showed his deep embarrass- 
ment, and hastened to say. 

“Forgive me. I meant no insult, no accusa- 
tion. You have a noble heart, if your skin is 
dark.” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


203 


“What matters the color of the skin?” Elan 
questioned. “It is what the Great Spirit puts in 
the heart that makes a man, whether he ,be an 
Indian or a white. Your gold cannot buy me a 
white skin, nor a higher place among my people. 
Rushing Water is a chief. Rushing Water is the 
son of a chief. But listen, father of the Hum- 
ming Bird,” he continued, and his voice grew stern. 
“When my people were avenging their wrongs 
on the white man, suddenly, in the midst of blood 
and death, Rushing Water saw the Humming 
Bird. The Great Spirit spoke to him, and told 
him to protect her. Rushing Watei did his will. 
He never shall return. He is cut off .from his 
people. Rushing Water is a chief, but he has no 
warriors. Rushing Water is a chief, but he has 
no tribe. He is alone. But the Great Spirit told 
him to protect the Humming Bird. Rushing 
Water did so. He does so now. White man, 
Rushing Water is her warrior!” 

The Frenchman turned aside to lay the bag of 
gold on a nearby garden seat, and in utter be- 
wilderment started to exclaim, 

“But you cannot ” 

He looked up. 

The Indian was gone. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE DECISION 

When Rene de Boncour joined his wife in the 
house he felt beaten, and dejectedly rehearsed the 
scene with the Indian. 

“It seems incredible,” he concluded, “that he 
could refuse the money. He had nothing — no 
home, no people, no friends but us, and our 
friendship must seem a strange and perverse thing 
to him. How does he live? He is proud as a 
King, and has notions of honor that his white 
brothers might note to their advantage. But 
what shall we do — what shall we do? No time 
must be lost, not even a day. Who knows what 
an Indian might do?” 

During this speech the Frenchman paced the 
floor in unconcealed agitation, which was fully 
shared by his wife. 

“He said he was her warrior!” she exclaimed. 
“Does he not realize that we are her natural pro- 
tectors, and now that she is safe with us again 
she does not need a warrior?” 


204 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


205 


“Little mother, is she safe with us? Is she safe 
from him anywhere in this country? Would we 
be doing right in keeping her here, with an Indian, 
who has nothing in the world to lose, constantly 
watching her? I don’t know what it is I fear, 
but I am desperate with an apprehension that I 
cannot define.” 

Again the woman’s intuition directed the 
father’s gropings, and she replied with decision. 

“I know what I fear. It is my daughter — my 
little woman-daughter. She has the same fine 
notions of honor as this Elan, and in addition, 
a high-strung, romantic heart that would brook 
no guidance, should a climax threaten. She must 
go away, dear. We must send our little girl 
away again, and there is only one place — and so 
far away! France!” 

“Ah, France! The very thing, and I have a 
boat sailing to-morrow,” he cried with immense 
relief. “Mme. de Cardot goes in the brig Marie 
Celeste, and she will take care of Valerie. It is 
time that she finished her education in the old 
country. Once there, with the faithful nuns, she 
will be perfectly safe, and this romance, that was 
born only of novelty and excitement, will die a 
natural death. It will have nothing to feed upon.” 

“Sh — Sh! Here she comes!” warned the 


20 6 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

mother, as the girl’s buoyant step was heard on 
the stair. 

Receiving the tender greetings of her parents, 
Valerie turned eagerly to her father. 

“Papa dear, I saw you from my window talk- 
ing to Elan. What did he say? When will he 
come to see us?” she questioned eagerly. 

The embarrassed father parried for time, and 
evading her direct questions, answered haltingly. 

“Well, you see, Valerie, he seemed to wish not 
to take the bag of gold, — this, here — which I 
offered him as a sort of reward, you know. He is 
somewhat shy perhaps, and, — er — er — well, he 
didn’t take it, and — and — and of course he ought 
to, as he has no means, but he wouldn’t — that is, 
he didn’t, and ” 

“Father, did you ask him to come to see us?” 
cried the girl in much distress. 

“Why, Valerie, you see,” stumbled Rene, “we 
can’t exactly ask him to come to see us — What 
would we do with him?” 

“Do? Why, be good to him, of course. 
Wasn’t he good to me? Don’t you realize, Papa, 
that he saved my life, not once, but several times? 
We ought to do something for him — something 
big and splendid — why, Papa, aren’t you grate- 
ful?” she cried reproachfully. 

“Little Daughter,” the anxious mother inter- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


207 


rupted, “can’t you see that we are grateful, when 
we offer him so much money? But he isn’t like 
us — his ways are not our ways, his blood not our 
blood. He is, you see, an Indian, while we 
are ” 

“He is an Indian, a redskin,” the father broke 
in impatiently. His daughter turned on him a 
pair of eyes that he realized he had never seen 
before. In desperation he continued hastily, “Yes, 
a redskin! He is familiar with murders and 
massacres, tortures and treacheries, and all sorts 
of barbaric horrors. He is savage. Can we ask 
a savage to our home? We do owe him a great 
debt. But we cannot pay him by offering him 
something he could not be expected to appre- 
ciate. His care of you was like the faithfulness 
of a dog, but we would not ask a dog to dine 
with us ” 

“A dog, father, a dog? Do you call Elan a 
dog ? Oh, Papa, Papa ” she broke into sob- 

bing — not the petulant tears of a child. A 
woman’s hurt was there, that echoed the mother’s 
fears. 

“Ah, but Valerie! Listen!” coaxed the father, 
grasping for an ally — “We have such good news 
for you — see! You shall go to France, dear old 
France, our old home, child. You shall sail to- 
morrow, with your dear Mme. de Cardot. Your 


208 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


mother and I were just planning it all for you 
when you came in. Won’t it be glorious? You 
can finish your schooling, and then ” 

“France? Go away?” stammered the girl gasp- 
ingly, — the color receding from her face — “I — 
will — not — go! Never!” More vehemently — “I 
— will never leave — this place — never! never!” 
She rushed from the room, — and the speechless 
parents heard the passionate patter of her feet 
on the stairs. 

“Well!” said the father. 

“Well?” echoed the mother. 

“What next?” moaned the father. 

“Ah, what?” sighed the mother. 

“She must go, of course,” said Rene, and with 
unspoken but sure understanding, the mother’s fine 
interpretation of her husband’s statement was that 
to her fell the delicate task of restoring harmony, 
healing wounds, and generally smoothing all the 
difficulties that lay in the way of starting her re- 
bellious daughter peacefully away on her journey. 
To her everlasting credit, and to the everlasting 
glory of all such saints, the Peacemakers of 
Homes, let it be known that Mme. de Boncour, 
brave, tender, and with aching heart, lovingly 
hastened all preparations for her daughter’s jour- 
ney across the ocean to the land of safety. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE SWIMMER IN THE MOONLIGHT 

A slight breeze had sprung up with the setting 
of the sun and Captain Edmond Bart, the sturdy, 
weather-beaten master of the brig Marie Celeste, 
had spread every stitch of her white canvas on 
the wide reaching yards to catch its feeble propul- 
sion. The anchor chains had clanked up through 
the hawse pipe, the anchor had been made fast 
and the vessel’s head swung around under the 
impulse of tide and breeze. 

As the ship got under way there slipped round 
under her stern and headed for the landing, a 
small boat vigorously rowed by two negro lads. 
In the stern of the little craft sat a man and a 
woman, and no second glance was needed for the 
recognition of Rene de Boncour and his wife. 
Rene’s round countenance was very solemn and 
very red, but distressed as he was he kept his 
self-control. The desolated mother, however, 
gave way to her anguish and sobbed out her grief 
over the parting with the beloved daughter. She 
209 


210 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


had left Valerie alone in her cabin at the parting, 
the poor child’s face drenched in tears. Madame 
de Boncour with that unfailing yet inexplicable 
power of mothers, had softened her daughter’s 
heart so that the girl unquestionably made her 
quick preparation for departure when bidden to 
do so by her father. Sympathetic, her heart torn 
by grief and fear, little Madame de Boncour had 
kept a shrewd watch on her daughter, but there 
had been no thrush’s pipe in the garden shrubbery 
and no sign of Elan d’ Eau, and now at last the 
mother deemed her daughter safe in the cabin of 
the brig, and the exhausting strain of apprehen- 
sion over, she indulged her natural grief. 

The rowboat pulled up alongside the levee and 
Rene assisted his wife to land, and they both 
turned and through misty eyes watched the great 
ship. 

On his quarterdeck Captain Bart stood beside - 
the helmsman, his eyes now sweeping the sky, now 
scanning the hungry sails lapping eagerly at each 
gust of wind. His orders came short and quick 
as he tacked back and forth, taking advantage of 
every puff and trick of the current. Thus engaged 
he did not see a dark hand that appeared on the 
starboard mainmast shroud, nor was he aware of 
an unbidden guest until a dripping Indian, who 
had leaped agilely over the rail, stood upon the 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


2 1 1 


deck. His glance slipping down to note the set 
of the main sheet, rested on this figure. 

“Ha !” he exclaimed in amazement, “who is 
this? How did you get here, and what is your 
business?” 

Then the light of understanding gleamed in his 
eyes. His employer, Valerie’s father, had warned 
him against Rushing Water and had told him 
enough of the Indian’s persistence to put him on 
his guard. At the sound of his voice the crew 
had turned and now several of them were ad- 
vancing toward the rail against which the Indian 
leaned. With a level glance Rushing Water 
looked up at the ship’s master, who was leaning 
now over the light rail that guarded his quarter- 
deck. 

“The Indian wishes to go to distant lands. He 
would work for the white chief on the great 
canoe.” 

“Not on this boat,” gruffly replied the captain. 
“Ahoy, there, mes enfants! Overboard with him! 
We have no time to waste.” 

His sharp words reached the ears of Valerie 
alone in her cabin. She rushed to the porthole 
and looked out, listening eagerly. Up on deck 
the voice of the young warrior pleaded. 

“Let me go with you! Let me go! I will 
work, I will pay.” 


212 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


He paused; then straightening himself to the 
full measure of his magnificent height, while the 
admiring sailors noted the play of the muscles 
under his satin skin, he said: 

“Listen to me, white chief! I am a chief and 
I do not lie. The Humming Bird is on your 
great canoe. I must go with her, for I am her 
warrior.” 

“Overboard!” roared the captain angrily. 

Watching from the porthole Valerie saw a 
form shoot downward and disappear with the 
splash of spray. Another moment a shining head 
and glistening shoulder appeared and the Indian, 
smiling up at the face framed by the porthole, 
swam close to the vessel’s side, keeping easily 
abreast. The girl waved her hand to him as he 
slipped with easy, even motion through the water, 
and called out: 

“Good-by, good-by!” 

The sunset breeze freshened, the great sun 
bannered in the low sky, and the ship swung into 
its glow, easing away before the air current. For 
a while the warrior swam even with the open port, 
his eyes on the little face which it framed. Twi- 
light deepened, a star came out, and the last glory 
of the sun’s pennants was reflected softly on the 
waters. 

Still the swimmer paced the ship untiring, but 



“ Good-by, good-by!” 
































































< 












































































































THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


213 


with each stroke the vessel gained on him. The 
porthole and the face imprisoned in it disappeared 
from his vision. He saw a fluttering hand, and 
then the great stern of the ship intervened. The 
sky was dark now, but the full moon rose behind 
the boat and sped a silver shaft in whose light 
the name of the brig standing in huge gold letters 
on the stern was clearly discernible. Close in the 
wake the swimmer followed, his eyes on the glitter- 
ing letters. 

There was a surge under the bows now for the 
night wind had freshened and the space between 
the lonely swimmer and the stern of the ship in- 
creased rapidly. Standing with his hand on the 
rail, Captain Bart watched the unequal struggle 
between the wind and human longing, and felt a 
sudden sympathy for this man of an alien race 
glow under his uniform coat. 

“Bravely done,” he breathed under his 
breath. “By the star of the north I never saw 
such a swimmer, — nor such a lover! Our lit- 
tle passenger below may well be proud of de- 
votion like that. Eh, but it is a hopeless job, 
my brave.” 

He watched the dark head farther and farther 
astern in the radiant path of the moon. At last 
it was so far away that he had to strain his eyes 


214 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


to catch a glimpse of it bobbing in the silver spray. 
Then he lost it. He leaned far over the rail to 
see, but the sheen of the moon was broken only 
by the waves. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE STOWAWAY 

The short, mild winter had passed and the 
tender green of spring was again upon the vege- 
tation of Louisiana. At anchor in the broad river, 
just off the de Boncour levee, swung the good ship 
Juliette of Bordeaux. She was a majestic vessel 
of five hundred tons, high, fore and aft, and deep- 
waisted; her main, mizzen and foremasts tower- 
ing above her snowy decks seemed to pierce the 
sky, and the width of her yard arms indicated an 
unusual spread of canvas. On board this beau- 
tiful and powerful vessel was every sign of ex- 
cellent discipline. The spotless decks, the neatly 
coiled lines, the closely furled sails which lay in 
snowy rolls along the yard arms, were all telltale 
signs of an efficient commander and a quick and 
obedient crew. Indeed, the commander himself 
in his person, as he now emerged from a com- 
panionway and stepped out on the quarter deck, 
bore out the impression created by the condition 
of his ship. His white blouse was buttoned to his 
215 


21 6 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

throat, despite the heat of the day. His cap was 
firmly set upon his gray hair, which, descending 
over his collar, was tied in a ribbon, the loops and 
free ends of which were so accurately matched in 
length as to seem to have been measured with a 
rule. His jaw was square, his mouth firm, his 
brows level, and his eyes keen and steady beneath 
them. 

“Well, my friend,” he said crisply but not un- 
kindly to a young Indian who had just clambered 
over the side from a canoe. “What can I do for 
you?” 

The Indian drew from the bosom of his shirt 
a piece of bark which he presented to the cap- 
tain. Rude lettering had been scrawled upon its 
flat surface. As the captain took it in his hands 
he glanced down upon these words: 



“Well!” he said, looking up with a question in 
his eyes. 

The Indian laid a dark finger upon the upper 
line. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


217 


“What means that totem?” he asked. 

Captain Frangois Halevy smiled again. 

“So you take me for a schoolmaster,” he said. 
“Well, all right. The sign means Marie Celeste . 
It is the name of a ship.” 

The Indian smiled understandingly. 

“And this?” he asked, placing his hand on the 
word below. 

“Bordeaux,” read Captain Halevy. “That is 
the name of a big city in the white man’s country, 
where there are many houses and many people.” 

“It is pictured on the back of your great canoe,” 
the Indian said. 

“Yes,” answered the captain, “like the Marie 
Celeste , we come from Bordeaux.” 

“And,” asked the Indian quietly, “when you 
cross the big water, do you go to Bordeaux?” 

Captain Halevy nodded. His visitor seemed 
satisfied. He returned the tablet of bark to the 
breast of his shirt. 

“Rushing Water is thankful,” he said, with a 
grave inclination of his head. “He wanted to 
know what the totem meant. When he saw it on 
the back of your ship, he came on board to ask 
you.” 

Then the young Indian turned, swung himself 
over the side, and was soon paddling away down 
the river. 


2l8 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Captain Halevy watched with admiration the 
strength and suppleness of his figure. 

“Ah!” he said under his breath, “some of these 
savages are great men. ’Tis a pity they do not 
take to the sea.” 

The Juliette was laden at last, with furs and 
cotton bales, and long sleeves of tobacco from the 
plantations further up the stream. Rene de Bon- 
cour placed in the captain’s hands for delivery to 
his daughter in Bordeaux, a great package of 
letters. 

Just before the anchor was broken out of the 
mud in the bottom of the Mississippi, Captain 
Halevy received on board the one passenger who 
was to accompany him back to France. This pas- 
senger was a short, fragile priest of the Jesuit 
Order, returning to the parent house in the old 
country after a long period of missionary service 
in the wilderness. The sea captain approved the 
wrinkled, weather-beaten face, with its ample fore- 
head, its halo of pure white hair descending from 
the tonsured crown, and the keen, humorous eyes 
that twinkled under shaggy brows. 

“The Juliette should have a happy voyage, 
Father,” he said, “since she carries a holy man.” 

“Holy men, captain,” replied the priest, the 
smile deepening in his eyes, “do not always have 
happy voyages in this world.” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


219 


“Well,” answered the captain, “if it be other- 
wise with the Juliette and we do not get safe to 
our harbor in France, at least with so excellent a 
pilot, we should make good weather after the 
world has done its worst with us.” 

Father Reville laughed softly and went below 
to stow his meager belongings in the cabin placed 
at his disposal. Up on deck he could hear the 
patter of hurrying feet and the sharp words of 
command. The windlass began to turn and the 
anchor chain to creak in the hawse pipes. Pulley 
blocks groaned shrilly, as the swiftly handled lines 
whistled through them, and there was a flapping 
as of great wings as the yards slatted and the big 
vessel gathered headway. Captain Halevy at the 
wheel maneuvered his vessel skilfully, taking ad- 
vantage of every shift in the wind and every trick 
of the current, as he followed the windings of the 
river down to the Mexican Gulf. Then with a 
fair, free wind blowing over his quarter, he flat- 
tened sail and headed south and east toward the 
Florida Keys. They still bore the land on the 
larboard beam, when, several days after their de- 
parture, Father Reville, his “Book of Hours” in 
his hand, strolled up and down in the waist of the 
ship. The good priest started as he saw one of 
the life boats, lying keel up on the deck, move 
ever so slightly. At last the side of the boat was 


220 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


raised a few feet, and a dark figure rolled out 
on the deck. As his quick eyes took in the stow- 
away, Father Reville exclaimed: 

“Ha! An Indian.” 

“Yes/’ answered the man, who had now gained 
his feet and stood towering above the little priest. 
“I am an Indian.” 

“But why were you hidden there?” the Father 
inquired. “No fire water?” 

The Indian shook his head. 

“No, Black Robe,” he answered, “I drink no 
fire water. I would go to the big city the white 
men call Bordeaux.” 

A look of surprise came into the priest’s eyes. 

“Eh!” he said. “You would go to Bordeaux, 
my son? And why Bordeaux? ’Tis the flight of 
many eagles from the home of the red man.” 

The Indian shook his head. 

“Rushing Water has no home,” he said. 

“Ah!” the priest answered him quickly and in 
the Delaware tongue. “My son is of the Algon- 
quin people? He is not a southern man?” 

The Indian was silent. 

“Are you from the lake country?” the priest 
asked again. 

With perfect gravity and without a trace of 
offense, in the simple manner of one who dis- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


221 


passionately states a commonplace, the warrior 
answered him: 

“Rushing Water does not wish to speak of his 
home or his people. He has no people and no 
home.” 

“Hey! What have we here!” sounded a voice 
behind him. “Hello ! It is my Indian. So this is 
the reason you asked for Bordeaux, that you might 
steal passage, hey?” 

The captain spoke brusquely and his eyes were 
severe. Father Reville laid a gentle hand upon 
his arm. 

“Let me plead for him, captain,” he said. “He 
is one of those whom it is my business to save. 
See, he is strong and able, could he not give serv- 
ice in payment for his passage?” 

Captain Halevy hesitated a moment, running 
his eyes over the lean and sinewy form of the 
young man. 

“Humph !” he said. “If he knew how to handle 
a rope he might be useful. However, if you want 
him, Father, try to make a Christian of him, and 
as for me, perhaps I can make a sailor of him.” 

The priest explained rapidly in the Delaware 
tongue the purpose of the captain and was re- 
warded when a smile of pleasure appeared upon 
the dark features of the stowaway. 

Rushing Water was led into the forecastle and 


222 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


provided with a berth. The sailormen were inter- 
ested rather than offended by the appearance of 
an Indian as a mess-mate, and they heartily entered 
into the task of teaching him the tricks of their 
trade. His quick intelligence, his deft hands, and 
the tremendous strength that lay in the coiled 
muscles of that supple body of his, soon made him 
a valuable member of the crew. He was quick 
as a cat on his feet. 

Meanwhile, Father Reville having had a new 
task set for him by Providence, started with char- 
acteristic directness and eagerness to do this un- 
expected piece of missionary work. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE QUESTION 

It was inevitable that the Jesuit priest and the 
Indian stowaway, whose presence and purpose on 
board the Juliette the former had so happily recon- 
ciled to the mind of the brusque but good-natured 
captain, would be thrown much together in the 
long voyage that laybefore them — and this in spite 
of the different stations they were to occupy. The 
missionary zeal of the priest alone would suffi- 
ciently explain and vindicate any effort he might 
put forth to seek the company of Elan d’Eau; and 
as for the Indian himself, his innate love of the 
mystical would be sure to attract him to the man 
whose religious vocation was revealed by his dress 
and accentuated, without deliberate purpose on 
his part, by all his manner of life. There was this 
additional attraction, that the priest possessed a 
fair knowledge of the Indian tongue; and even of 
the very dialect in which Elan d’ Eau was so thor- 
oughly versed. In all their interviews an outside 
observer would have found much to whet the 


223 


224 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


hunger of an honest study in human character. 
The winsomeness of the priest was ill disguised 
by his accomplished diplomacy; and the rare cau- 
tion and taciturnity of the young Indian but thinly 
veiled his growing fondness for the versatile 
churchman. Each had much to learn from the 
other; and the instinctive reverence which the 
good Father received from the untutored child 
of the forest was returned in something far 
deeper and truer than a condescending gracious- 
ness. Manhood is ever quick to recognize its 
kind! 

The missionary, for the Jesuit is always that, 
was too wise to make his underlying wish obnox- 
ious by resolving it into a constant point of con- 
tact. But from time to time there would fall from 
his lips, in the most natural way imaginable, such 
words of wisdom as reflect the truth more attrac- 
tively than direct statements can present it. When 
one places a rose in the hand of a child it is not 
necessary to call his attention to the fact that the 
rose is beautiful. From time to time, also, brief 
questions would be put by the cautious yet ven- 
turesome mind of the young man which were the 
surface hints of thoughts deep as eternity. 

Father Reville may, or may not, have known 
how thoroughly he was being studied by the keen 
mind he had taken to himself for the pleasure 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


225 


of companionship and the good that might follow. 
The magnetic personality of the priest had ren- 
dered his every act and word a matter of su- 
preme importance to the bronze-featured man 
whose mind and heart were equally busy in the 
search for a trail that would answer their mutual 
needs. 

The wind which had been baffling most of the 
way to the southeast, necessitating long reaches 
back and forth across the soft gale blowing stead- 
ily from the south, was much more favorable when 
the Juliette swung to the north and took the breeze 
astern. The great gulf stream, pouring its warm 
current out into the Atlantic through the Florida 
Straits, gave added impulse now, and the fine ship, 
with studsails set, and every inch of canvas draw- 
ing steady and true, sent a purling fleecy roll out 
from each side of her cut water. She was steady 
as a rock, standing straight up, as she ran before 
the wind. The blue sea was smooth as a mill 
pond’s unruffled breast. 

In the shadow of the great foresail Elan 
squatted on the deck. Before him on a low bench 
sat Father Reville, his arms folded. 

“Black Robe wears the totem of Manitu,” said 
the young warrior, pointing to the ebony crucifix 
in the priest’s belt. 

“Yes, my son,” the Jesuit replied, “Black Robe 


226 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


wears the sign of the eternal God. God is his 
father, God is the father of Rushing Water.” 

“Then the young man smiled — “the red 

man is brother to the white?” 

“All men who live are brothers,” said the priest. 
“All are sons of God. And he loves them with 
a love beyond the love of an earthly father.” 

“Each one?” the brave asked eagerly. “Surely 
it is a thing that cannot be — men are so many; 
who can count them?” 

“God is so great, he can count them,” the 
priest answered. “See you, this rounded ocean! 
He set it in the hollows of the world, planning 
each huge wave, each tiny ripple. First he made 
the world on which it floats, designing the moun- 
tains and the rivers, the trees and each leaf 
thereon. And all the living things he made, and 
more, that huge sun rolling there, an everlasting 
torch to give us light, and each clear white star 
that Rushing Water sees at night, itself a distant 
world or a distant sun, he made all these. But, 
greater marvel still, he made you, the spirit in 
you that sees and knows. Does my son under- 
stand? There is something in your body that has 
wings, swifter than the wings of the eagle, it is 
called thought. Let me speak of the great lakes 
in the north and the thought of Rushing Water is 
there. Let me talk of the star, Ishtar the guide, 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


227 


that dwells in the north sky, and the thought of 
Rushing Water is there. Does my son under- 
stand?” 

The young man nodded. 

“God made that — the thought that is winged,” 
said the priest. “More, he made, the voice in 
Rushing Water’s heart that says to him, ‘This 
thing is right,’ and ‘This thing is wrong.’ ‘This 
thing is true,’ and ‘This thing is not true.’ No 
tree has that, no beast, no ocean vast, nor huge 
blazing sun, only man, who is in the universe a 
mite like the bubble on the sea, only he has that 
knowledge of right and wrong — it is the soul in 
him, breathed into his body by the creator of all, 
and impressed with the likeness of God.” 

“ ’Tis a thought that is big,” Rushing Water 
commented, “like this great water, like the catar- 
act that foams over Niagara’s rocky brown, like 
the sky, like the thunder of Manitu crashing when 
the clouds take fire.” 

“ ’Tis truth,” said Father Reville. “No mere 
thought in the mind of man, but the true thing, 
made by God. Now let my son listen ! This God, 
with a heart so deep and wide that even the winged 
thought of man can never measure it, has he not 
the power to love each man, though they be as 
the forest leaves in number? This God, in whose 
mind the universe is but as an island in the sea, 


228 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


cannot he know each of his children? What 
father forgets the creature to whom he gave 
breath? Then shall not God love each of his 
creatures even more, to whom he has g^ven not 
the breath that passes, but the spirit that lives for- 
ever?” 

“And did God give his totem to the white peo- 
ple?” Rushing Water asked. 

“To all — white, black, yellow, red, for the color 
of man’s skin varies, but the color of his soul 
varies not.” 

“But the white people, they know God, Black 
Robe.” 

The old priest shook a sorrowful head. The 
answer forming on his lips was not uttered, for 
a sudden interruption called the young warrior 
from his side. It was some days thereafter before 
the conversation was resumed. 

One day with a change in the watch Elan left 
his white companions, among whom he had ceased 
to be an object of friendly curiosity and become 
the recipient of undisguised respect, and strolled 
along the deck toward the favorite seat of the 
Jesuit in the shadow of the foresail. The latter 
was reading aloud from his breviary, but in a low 
and richly cultured voice, and as the musical 
phrases caught the Indian’s equally musical ear, 
the latter paused and listened with evident de« 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


229 


light. On the cadence and rhythm of those ancient 
petitions, his soul might seem to be wafted back 
to its forest home. The echoing laughter of 
brooklets, the triumphant tread of torrents, the 
soothing alternations of the midnight storm, the 
deep and thrilling stir of dawn — these and a hun- 
dred more of their kind, would seem to have filled 
his soul with their sweet obsession. Looking into 
his far-away eyes one might have said that Elan 
d’ Eau was homesick; but looking more deeply 
still one might need to revise his opinion and be- 
lieve that the spirit of prophecy had waved her 
enchanting wand over his awakening soul. 

Though his step had been noiseless, and though 
no word had as yet been spoken, the priest soon 
became conscious of the Indian’s presence, and 
looking up from his prayer book exclaimed: 

“What brings you here, my son?” 

It was one of those questions which answer 
themselves by the tone in which they are uttered. 

“I am come, Black Robe, because it warms the 
current of my life to be where you are. In the 
heart of Elan d’ Eau your friendship has awak- 
ened many echoes, such echoes as he has heard 
awakened in the heart of the woods by the voice 
of the song thrush when the shadows have length- 
ened on the hills. It is a friendship such as the 
heart of a lonely traveler fears not to trust. It is 


230 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


a friendship that can stand the test of silent com- 
munion; as the forest lake is most beautiful in its 
calm. Your words have been to me like the music 
of rivulets; but your silent thoughts have blessed 
me as the tent of heaven. I have seen them in 
your eyes, and they shone like the stars at mid- 
night ! I know that Black Robe desires to lead the 
feet of Rushing Water into a new trail — a trail 
with which the feet of Black Robe have long been 
familiar. But he must know that the Indian mind 
loves its own way of thinking, and changes slowly. 
It must have firmly in its grasp the treasure of 
the new, before it will part with the treasure of 
the old. Old garments, though they be many 
times patched, are better than no garments when 
winter comes with its breath of ice. Old hunting 
grounds, though they be sorely consumed, are 
better for hope than the sterile sands of the desert. 
Old wigwams must not be burned, till the new 
ones are built. So teaches the Indian wisdom. 
Your friendship has been precious; your words 
have been sweet and comforting; your spirit talk 
seems wise. But Black Robe must not be angry 
with a poor untutored child of the forest, if he 
has many questions to ask before his feet can 
confidently enter the new trail which Black Robe 
would set for him.” 

“Do you think that I have been unmindful of 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


231 


the things you speak of, my son?” asked the priest. 

“No, no,” answered the young man, “the pa- 
tience of Black Robe has been as the patience of 
a squaw for the child of her chief.” 

“Then what is the first question you would 
ask, my son?” 

“Black Robe will not be angry?” 

“Why does my son mistrust me?” 

Leaning forward the young Indian took in his 
own hand the crucifix that hung at the girdle of the 
priest, and looking into the eyes of the latter with 
a deep and wistful gaze, he asked: 

“If Black Robe will not be angry, what means 
this totem?” 

There was something in the tone of the inquiry 
that saved the wise priest from too great an exul- 
tation; something that betokened, not a mere curi- 
osity, but a personal interest, quite independent 
of any specifically religious intention. Looking 
frankly into the wondering eyes of the young brave 
he replied: 

“Totem, you have not unwisely called it, my 
son. It stands for a family bond; but it has a 
depth of meaning far surpassing that of any simi- 
lar token with which you have been familiar. It is 
the totem of a world-wide brotherhood: and it 
represents the love and sacrifice which alone were 


232 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

capable of making that brotherhood a real fact 
upon the earth.” 

“But the warrior whose image is so beautifully 
wrought out — who was he?” asked the young 
man, with face as placid as a mountain lake, 
though the discerning ear of the priest seemed to 
catch the echoes of an inner excitement that was 
struggling to break the barriers of its restraint. 

“Ah, my son, he was the Great Warrior — the 
one in whose presence all others must hang their 
heads in silence and humility, and many in sorrow 
and shame. Does my son desire to know the 
story?” 

The young man bowed his assent, but also re- 
plied: 

“If it please Black Robe to grant this favor, 
Rushing Water will be grateful and happy.” 

A sudden interruption caused both the priest 
and the warrior to glance at the quarter deck. M. 
Matisse was descending the companionway into 
the waist, his trumpet in his hand. He had just 
boomed out an order to shorten sail. Elan d’ Eau 
turned on a quick heel. 

“I am needed aft, Father,” he said. “Tomor- 
row let it be, if the time suits.” 

“Tomorrow let it be, my son,” answered the 
priest. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE ANSWER 

At the appointed time Rushing Water was in 
his place; but not too early to be welcomed by 
Father Reville, with whom punctuality was a law 
of well-nigh sufficient importance to warrant its 
addition to the Decalogue. The young man, true 
to the role he had voluntarily assumed, started to 
place himself at the feet of the priest, when the 
latter with more of agitation than he was wont 
to betray, exclaimed: 

“Nay, my son, not there; but here at my side, 
on the lid of this locker, where one man may look 
into the eyes of another, not upward nor down- 
ward, but on a level plane. Together we shall 
sit, — you, the red warrior, and I the white priest, 
— humble in mind and heart before the thought 
of the high priesthood of one concerning whom 
we have met to inquire: for he was both priest 
and warrior.” 

Rushing Water seemed well pleased with this 
233 


234 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


remark and with true nobility of mien took his 
seat beside the Jesuit. 

“Many, many years ago,” said the latter, “and 
far to the eastward of that land toward which 
we are sailing, in a village called Bethlehem, was 
born the mighty warrior whose totem I wear. By 
command of the Great Spirit his parents named 
the child Jesus, which, in the language of that land 
and people meant Saviour, or Deliverer. He came 
to deliver his people not from the rule of a mighty 
nation that had conquered them and was holding 
them in the chains of its servitude; but he came 
to deliver them and all mankind from the bond- 
age of their sins. For it was as true then as it 
is now that a man’s most dangerous and cruel foes 
are those which lurk in the shadows of his own 
erring heart, and that wait there to lure him into 
their deadly ambush. And it was as true then as 
it is today that no one is so pitiably enslaved as he 
who remains subject to his own follies and fears.” 

The young man nodded assent, thereby showing 
both that he understood in some measure, at least 
the meaning of what had been said, and that he 
agreed to it. 

“The night that he was born,” resumed the 
priest, “the stars of heaven shone with a peculiar 
brightness. And ere he was laid for the first time 
on his fond mother’s breast, a throng of heavenly 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


235 


spirits filled the sky with a flood of light and 
song. This, my son, was the song they sang over 
the birthplace of the Great Papoose: 

u ‘Glory be to the Great Spirit who rules on 
high; and between all his children on earth may 
there come peace and a feeling of brotherhood.’ 

“The Papoose grew up like other children; but 
when he came to be twelve years of age, he re- 
vealed, as the day dawns in a cloudless sky, that 
he was different from others; that he was held by 
some stronger tie to the Great Spirit; that the 
Great Spirit had sent him to be the head warrior 
and medicine man of all tribes. When at last this 
child became a man the truth burst fully from 
him that he was the Great Spirit’s own son. Then 
it was that he went forth in the pathway of con- 
quest, without either bow, or arrows, or shield, or 
spear, in his mighty hand; and without malice, 
or envy, or jealousy, or vengeance in his heart. 
The flowers of the field knew him and revealed to 
his soul their inmost beauty; the birds of the air 
knew him and sang their sweetest chorus into his 
listening ear; the children of the street knew him 
and cheered his soul with their laughter; good 
women saw him and loved him, because he was 
ever more tender than themselves; strong men 
followed him and loved him, because he was 
stronger than they. And these are but a portion 


236 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


of the beautiful things that may be said of his 
life. But wicked men also knew him, and because 
they did not desire to forsake their wickedness, 
and because his teachings taught the world such 
ways as would shame their practices, they hated 
him and sought his destruction. 

“But he kept to the trail that his Father had 
set for him, fighting cruelty with kindness, hatred 
with love, and the sins of mankind with the sor- 
rows of heaven. 

“Finally, they plotted against him, these wicked 
ones who had rejected him, and prepared to put 
him to death. So they made what we call a cross; 
and on that they slew him.” 

Here the priest lifted his own shining crucifix 
and with his forefinger traced the image of the 
cross. 

“They made his cross of heavy pieces of wood, 
and compelled him to carry it from the place of 
their false pow-wow toward the place of his death ; 
he fell to the ground beneath its weight; it was 
laid on the shoulders of a passing friend, and 
he was scourged to the scene of his torture ; there 
they bound him to the cross, and to it they nailed 
him — a spike through each hand, as you see by 
the totem, and a spike through his feet! There 
the Great Warrior hung, when the cross was 
placed upright, suffering untold agony during six 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


237 


long hours, while his own fond mother looked 
on with unspeakable anguish and the cruel crowd 
made sport of his dying. On his beautiful brow 
had been placed a crown of thorns as a symbol of 
mockery. And in return for all this deepening 
cruelty the Great Warrior uttered not one word of 
bitterness or anger; but looking straight toward 
heaven, he cried: ‘Father, forgive them; they 
know not what they do!’ Then he died; and 
while the earth was yet trembling from the shock 
of his death, the crowd began to awake and be- 
hold the meaning of their cruel deeds. One of 
them, himself a warrior, cried: ‘Surely this man 
was the Son of Manitu!’ 

“My child, that death was a victory. It opened 
to the gaze of a hungry world the fathomless 
depths of the Great Father’s love; and it has 
done more than all things beside to make the 
world happy in the practices- of love and peace. 
The flowers of human happiness cannot find their 
richest bloom in the icy breath of vengeance and 
strife. Men are not animals made to bite and 
tear and devour each other; men are brothers, 
each to each — and all to all, despite the differ- 
ences of their customs or the varying colors of 
their skin. All are the offspring of one eternal 
and almighty Father. The cup of human happi- 
ness will never be filled until the whole world 


238 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


has come to know this wonderful but simple 
truth. But he who would wear the totem of this 
great brotherhood, and wear it sincerely, must be 
ready to follow the Great Sachem in the trail 
that led him to the cross! 

“But think you, my child, that death was the 
end of that warrior? They gave his mangled 
body to his friends, who placed it, all covered 
with spices, in a rock-hewn grave. But think 
you that the grave could hold such as he? No, 
he burst asunder the bonds of death, as you 
have seen your own companions break the withes 
with which they were bound to make sport for 
their fellows. He rose from the sleep of death; 
and he proved to the hungry hopes of men that 
what you call The Happy Hunting Ground, and 
what we white brothers call Heaven is a blessed 
reality. He proved that the trail of life has no 
end !” 

The priest paused, and to his astonishment 
saw the young Indian draw from beneath an in- 
ner garment a crucifix, the very counterpart of 
that which hung from his own waist, save that 
it had been carved and cut from a piece of purest 
crystal. It was a beautiful specimen both of na- 
ture and of art, and it was held for a moment 
where its angles caught the soft rays of a declin- 
ing sun; it flashed with a light that seemed super- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


239 


nal. Rushing Water, his eyes gleaming with 
wonderment, laid this flashing symbol in the lap 
of the priest and almost breathlessly inquired: 

“Does it mean, Black Robe, that this totem 
marks me out as a warrior kindred to him whom 
they slew upon the cross?” 

For a long while the Jesuit sat speechless, ex- 
amining the shining crucifix. The beautiful clarity 
of the crystal and the cunning carving of the 
figure of The Crucified, excited his admiration. 
One touch of color only he saw — a reddish- 
brown stain running through the feet of the Sav- 
iour and the upright of the cross. He thought 
at first that this stain was due to design but as 
he examined the spot more closely he saw that the 
carved head of the nail was not set in the stain but 
a little to one side. The stain was a streak of 
iron which had somehow been involved in the 
stalactite process from which the jewel had been, 
cut. At last the priest looked up. 

“It means, my son,” said the faithful priest, 
“that we have here the suggestion of a path which 
I have not the wisdom to discover. Some one 
who knew you better than you know yourself, were 
that one of us, could answer your question in a 
way that might surprise and please us both. Do 
not part with this beautiful totem, my son; its 
presence will ever tend to draw you nearer to him 


240 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


who died to make you his self-acknowledged 
brother; and it may hide in its luminous depths a 
secret that links you to a nobler past than that 
of which you know or dream. God’s peace be 
with you, my son!” 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE STORM 

So far the voyage had prospered. Except for 
the head winds encountered in the Gulf, the gale 
had favored the progress of the Juliette and she 
had averaged six knots on her way across the At- 
lantic. They had crossed the fortieth parallel 
and the seamen were already anticipating the 
joys of shore-leave in their native land, when 
the breeze, which had steadily driven them for- 
ward for many days, lost its vigor. Instead of 
the firm, continuous thrust, short gusty pushes 
filled out the canvas, which between times hung 
limp on the yard arms. Unwilling to sustain the 
unnecessary loss of an hour, Captain Halevy 
spread more canvas as the breeze slackened. The 
studsail yards were run out and made fast, and 
the great wings stretched to catch every ounce of 
wind. This helped a little, but despite it the speed 
of the vessel diminished. The breeze died, with 
a few quivering gasps. The water lay under the 
vivid blue of the sky, with a silken smoothness. 

241 


242 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


The great ship was motionless — she had left the 
Gulf Stream far to the westward, and no longer 
felt its impulse on her keel. The white sails hung 
limp on the yards. Captain Halevy, glancing 
aloft from the quarter deck to the flagstaff re- 
marked with a grim smile to Father Reville, as 
he pointed to the sad rumple of the flag of France. 

“A Dutchman’s hurricane, Father — up and 
down the mast.” 

“ ’Tis wonderfully calm,” the priest replied. 

“But not likely to be calm long,” said the cap- 
tain, whose glance was sweeping the horizon. “M. 
Matisse, my glass, if you please!” he shouted to 
his first officer. 

The sailor leaped down a hatch to the cabin, 
returning with a telescope. Resting it on a life- 
boat aswing on the davits, the captain surveyed 
the eastern sky. 

“Ha !” he exclaimed, “I thought as much. M. 
Matisse, we shall take in sail, studsails first.” 

Father Reville, looking to the east, noted an 
obliteration of the horizon. He turned a ques- 
tioning glance on the captain. 

“It looks bad, Father,” said the captain, an- 
swering his unuttered question. “We have lots of 
sea room, however, although I hate to run back.” 

Even as they looked, the haze in the east deep- 
ened into a thick gloom, and with incredible speed 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


243 


tumbling black clouds came sweeping across the 
blue heavens. The air was silent, tense, oppres- 
sive. The sea lost its blue brightness and took 
on an aspect of green, gray terror, broken afar 
off by bursts of white spume. Captain Halevy, 
with a sigh, prepared to strip his ship of canvas. 

“Down to the bare poles. We shall have to 
run for it, Monsieur Matisse,” he said. 

Matisse seized the speaking trumpet. 

“Stand by to furl the topsail!” he shouted, his 
voice sounding unnaturally loud in the deep si- 
lence. 

Instantly the topsail yards were manned, and 
Father Reville, looking up, saw the dark figure 
of Rushing Water outlined against the sky at the 
topmast head. With a little thrill of admiration, 
he noted the grace of the pose and the perfect 
self-confidence that kept the man secure on his 
perilous perch. Again Matisse’s voice rang out. 

“Down-haul, all!” 

There was a rattle as the down-haul creaked 
and the sail was furled against its spar. His trum- 
pet in his hands, Matisse was now snapping out 
swift, whip-like commands, under whose impulse 
the men scrambled up the shrouds and manned 
the main yards. At last the great lower sails 
were furled and lashed to their yards, and the 
ship, stripped like a gladiator for conflict, await- 


244 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


ed the onrushing storm. As they watched it from 
the quarter deck, it seemed as if sea and sky were 
one, the clouds descending and the sea rising, to 
form a vast black mass bearing down upon them 
in its fury. With a sudden roar it was upon 
them. 

Captain Halevy, gripping the taffrail and lean- 
ing forward, alert, sensed the instant of impact, 
and sharp through the shriek of the gale, rang 
out his high command: 

“Hard a-lee !” 

As the helm bore across the deck and the ves- 
sel, gathering life from the impact of the hurri- 
cane, obeyed the rudder’s direction and swung on 
her heel to spring forth like a race-horse before 
the driving wind, a great sea rose astern, seemed 
to pause, a huge impending, green-gray thing of 
terror, then broke in a fury of snow-white foam, 
and crashed down upon the vessel. Under the 
blow the Juliette quivered like a living thing, and 
as the smother of foam streamed over her, stag- 
gered like a man with a broken back. Halevy, 
who had joined the two seamen at the helm, 
held his breath for a minute, then as his ship 
steadied and rose on the next swell with her 
buoyance, he breathed a sigh of relief. His 
trumpet was at his lips and his voice rang out 
again. 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


245 

“M. Matisse!” he called, “report to me at 
once whether anyone was carried away!” 

“Aye, aye, sir!” came the officer’s answer, faint 
in the roar of the elements. 

Within a few minutes his dripping form stood 
at Halevy’s side. 

“Seaman Leroux had his leg broken and has 
been carried below,” he reported. “Otherwise 
all hands are accounted for. The forecastle hatch 
was smashed in, but no further damage seems to 
be done.” 

“We are not taking water?” asked the cap- 
tain. 

“Not a drop, sir,” the officer answered cheer- 
fully. 

“ ’Twas a close squeak,” said Halevy grimly, 
“but I think we’ll weather it now.” 

The gloom was intense. Halevy leaned for- 
ward, straining his eyes, but could see nothing 
ahead but the black ruck of the storm and the 
white crests of the towering waves, which now 
thrust them high and now buried them deep in 
the trough of the waters. They were traveling 
at a fearful speed. Thunder crashes, peal on 
peal, furnished profound subtones for the high 
pandemoniac scream of the winds in the rigging. 
Sharp, blazing shafts of lightning tore raggedly 
through the clouds and gave brief and weird illu- 


246 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


mination to the violent desolation in which they 
blindly careered. Looking forward in one of 
these sudden bursts of unearthly light, Halevy saw 
a strange figure outlined against the gloom. 

Father Reville clinging with one hand to the 
glistening forestay, his face uplifted and his hair 
startlingly white in the lightning’s ghastly il- 
lume, stood at the very prow of the boat. His 
black gown against the darkness of the storm 
made his body almost invisible, but the face with 
its crown of white glory and the hand clutching 
the cordage, stood out in sharp definition. Halevy 
heard an exclamation in the guttural Indian tongue 
at his side. The priest had taken his hand from 
the stay and both hands were now clasped before 
him. There was a sudden fierce and furious gust 
and the two hands and white face seemed lifted 
into the air. 

All this occurred in an instant; the lightning 
glare vanished, and the blackness of the storm 
enshrouded all. Looking around, the captain saw 
the gloom thicken at his side, and a dark bulk 
arose from the rail and disappeared. Matisse’s 
voice came faintly to his ears, sounding the dread 
cry: 

“Man overboard!” 

The captain gritted his teeth, full of wild rage 
at his own helplessness. The storm drove him 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


247 


on and on. Twice, with the full knowledge In his 
heart of the utter impossibility of it, he tried to 
bring his vessel around, only to be beaten back 
each time by the staggering buffets of the huge 
seas and the irresistible thrust of the driving wind. 
At the first signal he had ordered everything 
buoyant cast adrift, and ready hands flung over 
the side in a frantic hope that they might be of 
help to the unfortunate, life boats, buoys, hatch 
covers — whatever came to hand that might sustain 
a human body on the face of the water. Halevy 
still clinging with his seamen to the thrashing 
helm, still striving to pierce the wild gloom ahead, 
murmured under his breath the prayer for the 
dying. 

The tempest passed as suddenly as it came. A 
wan light shone astern, the blackness ahead be- 
came gray. There was a final terrific shrieking 
rush of mighty winds, then a quavering wail, then 
silence. The gray wreck tore on, the last clouds 
hung like stragglers in the sky, the sunlight burst 
again upon the troubled sea. For half an hour 
there was a dead calm, then a light breeze sprang 
up, coming out of the north. Instantly Captain 
Halevy ordered every stitch of canvas spread to 
the breeze and turning on his heel, he retraced his 
course over the waters. Hour after hour they 


24B 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


sailed, a lookout at each masthead searching the 
sea for the lost ones. 

The night came on, beautiful, clear, brilliant 
with starlight. All through the dark hours the 
voice of the lookout called forth over the sea, and 
the Juliette gleamed with lanterns hung astern and 
astern. There was no answering voice coming to 
them out of the night. The stars paled and the 
dawn came, and with its first gleam the lookout’s 
voice sounded dismally from the clouds of canvas 
aloft, as he announced the tidings that nothing was 
visible on the face of the waters. When noon 
came and the sorrowing little company seemed all 
alone on the vast reaches of the sea, the captain 
gave up hope. 

“Ah, M. Matisse,” he said to his first officer, 
“those were two brave spirits that have passed 
into eternity. Call all hands on deck. We are 
Christian people, and if the priest has gone and 
the savage with him, we shall make shift at least 
to supplicate the good God in their behalf.” 

Soon a strange scene, which there was no human 
eye to see, presented itself on the deck of the great 
ship. Save for the two helmsmen at the tiller and 
the lookout clinging to the topmast head, all the 
ship’s company were gathered on the deck. They 
were rough seamen, many of them with faces and 
bare, brown hands covered with tattooed designs, 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


249 


and some of them with gold earrings glittering in 
the sunlight. Holding a little prayer book in his 
hand, the captain strode among them. Suddenly 
he sank to his knees on the deck and instantly the 
sailors knelt in a circle around him. Then in a 
deep voice Captain Halevy read the litany for 
the dead, and in deeper and rougher chorus the 
sailors gave responses. The water lapped the 
ship’s sides, and the breeze above them fresh- 
ened, filling the sails, while from simple hearts, 
grieved at the loss of a revered priest and a com- 
rade upon whom they had bestowed their unques- 
tioning affection, rose the devout antiphony. 

“Lord have mercy on them,” read Captain 
Halevy. 

“Christ have mercy on them,” the deep sea 
voices answered. 

Suddenly, from above the billowing canvas 
where the lookout clung to the cross trees, there 
came a cry. The men hurriedly touched with 
their right hands forehead and breast, right shoul- 
der and left, and rose to their feet, and Captain 
Halevy shouted up to the lookout: 

“What is it you see?” 

“ ’Tis only a speck, sir, dead ahead,” said the 
lookout. “It isn’t a ship, it looks like a piece of 
wreckage.” 

In breathless suspense they waited while the 


250 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


ship forged ahead, and the speck grew larger and 
larger in the lookout’s sight. 

“I make it now, sir,” he yelled down at last, 
his voice full of joy. “It is a piece with two men 
clinging to it.” 

Crowding on every inch of canvas, Halevy hur- 
ried the pace of his ship until she bore down at 
last on the object which had attracted the look- 
out’s attention. It was a huge hatch cover which 
had been hurled overboard during the height of 
the storm. With his body stretched across it, 
his legs hanging in the water, Father Reville lay. 
Beside him, one sinewy hand clutching his collar, 
sat Rushing Water. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE BATTLE WITH DEATH 

That fierce dark onset of elemental anger found 
the Jesuit in the waist of the ship. As the gray 
wall of water rose astern and crashed down like 
a sweeping charge of white cavalry, he clutched a 
taut stay and clung desperately to the rigid rope. 
The onsweep of the sea dragged at him savagely 
but he held fast, and the hurried waters rushed by. 
Drenched but unhurt he heard Captain Halevy’s 
inquiry and Matisse’s report. Then he made his 
way forward in the gloom. The old man’s eyes 
were bright with interest. To the mind that dwelt 
constantly on things eternal, this huge sweep of 
things beyond human control had a wild magnifi- 
cent charm. 

“Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shad- 
ow of death, I shall fear no evil,” he murmured, 
smiling to himself with the thought that there was 
within him a soul that could ride unterrified in the 
storm, superior to nature because supernatural in 
its origin, its essence, and its destiny. Making his 
251 


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THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


way forward along the wet, heaving deck, he 
reached the short forecastle ladder. Clambering 
up this, he lurched forward to the peak. His 
hand rested on the foremast stay, and he steadied 
himself to watch the sublime spectacle, the thun- 
derbolt’s swift, uncertain flight through the dark, 
the huge, onrushing waves with furious white 
plumes, ghostly in the murk, gleaming in the blue- 
white glare. A minute or so he stood there, his 
spirit filled with the grandeur of it. Involuntarily 
he took his hand from the stay and raised both 
hands before him in a gesture of adoration. A 
sword of flame had shorn the tumbling smoky 
clouds, and the deafening crash of its peal was 
in his ears. Suddenly he was lifted up as if in- 
visible hands had clutched him, and hurled into 
the sea. He saw the ship’s dark shape rush by, 
saw it mount a vast wave and drop from his 
sight. 

Old though he was, there was strength in the 
spare frame of the priest. He realized his situa- 
tion, nor dreamed of possible succor in that wild 
tempest, but it was his duty to prolong life to the 
utmost, and so, more from the sense of obligation 
than from any physical instinct of self-preserva- 
tion, he did his best to keep afloat. It was grim 
business. Flung high one instant by a breaker, 
sucked deep into its fast following trough the next, 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


253 


his breath was soon spent. He felt the water 
close over his head. He was still conscious when 
he came again to the surface, and with a final sum- 
moning of all his remaining strength he threw up 
his white head, and his voice rang out: 

“Into thy hands, O Lord, I deliver my spirit!” 

The cry of surrender spent him and the sea 
surged again above his nostrils. But, as he sank 
there was a tremendous threshing of the waters 
not far off, and his white hair still floated when 
a sinewy hand gripped his collar. As conscious- 
ness departed, a strong voice sounded in his ears : 

“I am here, Black Robe,” it said. 

The faintness passed and recurred several 
times, and with each flash of consciousness, the 
feebly working mind of the priest had an impres- 
sion of some extraneous power that was keeping 
him afloat. At last a sense of physical pain came 
to him, the feeling of contact with a hard sub- 
stance, of something tearing his flesh, and tugging 
at his arms. With an effort he rallied his facul- 
ties. The storm was still raging, his opened eyes 
looked up at a black heaven. He felt a hard sub- 
stance under him and realized that it was a plank. 
A nail had torn the flesh of his thigh. At the 
edge of the plank he saw Rushing Water’s head, 
and he became conscious that the warrior was 
clutching his robe with one hand, while he gripped 


254 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


the edge of the plank with the other. Leaning 
his body forward the young man tested the buoy- 
ancy of their support. When satisfied he clam- 
bered up on it, seating himself beside the body of 
the priest. What they rested on was a great hatch 
cover, one of the many articles thrown over side 
at Halevy’s command. 

The storm passed at last, but the wild heaving 
of the sea made it a matter of some difficulty to 
keep the priest from slipping into the waves. 
Rushing Water sat, his eyes searching the empty 
ocean, one hand hooked in the collar of the Jesuit’s 
robe, the other gripping the plank. The evening 
came and night shut down upon them. The sea 
grew calmer. Far above them the cold stars 
shone. The lassitude following his struggle had 
kept the priest silent, but when the night came he 
spoke. 

“How came my son to be in the sea?” he asked. 

“Rushing Water is a strong swimmer,” the 
young man answered simply. “From his boyhood 
he has been such. When the wind swept the 
Father from the bow, the warrior leaped over the 
rail astern. He hoped he might find his friend.” 

Father Reville’s eyes opened wide in wonder. 

“But the storm was at its height. You might 
have lost, indeed you still may lose your life.” 

“Did not the Father tell me,” asked the young 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


255 


man, “that in the great brotherhood of the fol- 
lowers of the Christ, if a man would save his life 
he must first lose it? A sagamore said that, did 
he not?” 

“True!” replied the priest. “My son is quick 
to grasp. But we are likely to find life soon, the 
eternal life,” he added. “My son has no 
fear?” 

The eyes that gazed down at him answered the 
question. With a satisfied smile, the priest closed 
his eyes. Weariness overcame him and he slept. 
The sun was bursting red above the rim of the sea 
when he awoke. It lighted a vast and lonely 
ocean. The priest gazed at his companion, who 
sat rigid, his jaw set, and the fierce intentness of 
one who fights off sleep in his eyes. 

“You must rest,” said the priest. “Let me hold 
you now. I have slept. I am refreshed.” 

He tried to raise himself but sank back. The 
effort made his head swim. A faintness came 
upon him. Several times when reason awoke he 
saw that grim figure, with the tense set features 
and the eyes that fought against sleep. The sun 
beat down on them. The priest seemed alone in 
a world of yellow light that closed in upon him. 
It was a vague, flickering, contracting circle of con- 
sciousness, but dominating it ever was the set, 


2 56 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 

strong face of his companion. At last even that 
grew dim. Suddenly he felt the grip on his collar 
tighten and heard the warrior’s voice : 

“Courage, Father,” it said. “Courage, I see a 
sail.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE NEW LIFE 

Quickly the davit swung outboard, and already 
manned was the life boat when the creaking tackle 
dropped it on the sea. Matisse in the stern han- 
dled the steering oar and bent forward eagerly 
as he urged the rowers to speed. They needed 
little urging for each of them realized what des- 
perate tenacity had held the two men on that frail 
raft, and they could guess that the point of ex- 
haustion was near at hand. The bow of their 
good sea boat surged through the waves, rising 
and falling, ever nearer to the two stiff figures 
on the hatch cover. At last Matisse shouted 
hoarsely to the straining oarsmen: 

“Avast 1 Hold all!” 

The oars gurgled in the sea and the boat came 
to a stop. Matisse shot forth a quick hand and 
grasped the robe of the priest. Another instant 
and the form was lifted over the gunwale and 
laid in the bottom of the boat. Two sailors as- 
sisted Rushing Water, and soon the row boat was 
speeding back to the side of the Juliette . 

257 


2 5 8 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Father Reville was carried up the short side lad- 
der and deposited on the deck. Close behind him 
came his rescuer. As the young man stepped on 
the deck, Captain Halevy glanced at him keenly. 
For an instant the warrior stiffened his splendid 
form and stood erect, then his limbs began to 
tremble. The sinews softened, his red and blaz- 
ing eyes glared around wildly and his hands 
reached out with a weak, groping gesture. Halevy 
leaped toward him, but before he could reach him 
a queer, weak, little sob broke from the cracked 
lips of the young man, and he staggered a step 
and lurched headlong to the deck. 

Quickly his messmates gathered round him and 
lifting him they carried him below, as they had 
a few minutes before carried the unconscious 
priest. 

The cabin assigned to Father Reville opened on 
the companionway at the foot of the ladder 
leading to the spar deck. There was an open port 
at one end and a door at the other. A bunk seven 
feet long by two feet wide was attached to the 
bulkhead, and opposite this rude berth was the 
chair that formed the single article of movable 
furniture in the cabin. It was in this compart- 
ment that Father Reville recovered consciousness 
on the morning after the rescue. His first thought 
was for his Indian friend, and as Captain Halevy 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


259 

stood by his side he made immediate inquiry. The 
captain shook his head. 

When consciousness had returned to Rushing 
Water, it was a strange incoherent consciousness, 
crowded with phantoms. His amazed comrades 
stood around him as he tossed in his hammock, 
ready to hold him should his violence threaten in- 
jury to himself. They looked upon him with deep 
sympathy when the sobs came from him, broken 
and bitter like those of a strong man in extreme 
agony, and their faces showed wonder when sud- 
denly his voice would rise in high, quick exclama- 
tions in the Delaware tongue. 

This the captain explained to the Jesuit. The 
priest’s face darkened with concern and he swung 
himself out of the berth. 

“No, you must not do that, Father,” the cap- 
tain protested. “You are still too weak. He is 
getting every attention.” 

But the Jesuit standing with his hand on the 
bulkhead, to steady himself, shook his head. 

“My weakness shall soon pass,” he said. “Aye, 
I am better now, my mind clears. Your arm, Cap- 
tain, I must go to him.” 

Captain Halevy encircled with his muscular 
arm the frail form of the missionary and sup- 
ported him to the sick bay where Rushing Water 
lay in his hammock. A weather-beaten, thin-fea- 


26 o 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


tured sailorman was acting as nurse. His great, 
hairy arms, tattooed to the shoulder, were bare, a 
bright red kerchief was tied around his neck in 
a loose knot, and huge earrings dangled from his 
ears. His small eyes looked out of a wrinkled 
face upon which was a thatch of thick, gray hair. 
Father Reville noticed that although his hands 
were rough and knotty, they caressed with almost 
a woman’s gentleness the throbbing forehead of 
the sick man. 

“How fares our friend, Jules?” the captain 
asked. 

The gray head was shaken dolefully. 

“It seems a bad business, sir,” he answered. 
“If I could only understand what he says, I 
might do something for him. But it is all, as you 
hear, wild raving in that heathen tongue of his. 
Sometimes he sobs like a baby, sir, and sometimes 
he shouts out like a fleet commander.” 

The priest took the place of the sailor by the 
side of the hammock and laid a hand on the brow 
of the sufferer. 

“I would have him in my cabin, Captain,” he 
said. “Let him be laid in my berth.” 

“But you, Father! You are not strong 
enough ” the captain began. 

“Strength is not of the body, my son, but of 
the spirit,” the priest answered, “and the God 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 261 

who gave him strength to battle with the deep, 
will give me what strength I need.” 

They carried the young man into the priest’s 
small cabin and laid him in the berth. There 
Father Reville, who like many of the missionaries 
of his Order and of his day was a physician as 
well as a priest, began to nurse him back to health. 
Cold water from over the side he had brought 
to him in huge buckets, and with this he bathed 
the form of the sick man until the cooled blood 
gave the natural vitality of the young warrior a 
chance to fight. 

It was a long struggle, however, and nearly 
two weeks had gone by before the priest dared 
to hope that the grim reaper had been beaten. 
He himself was showing by this time the strain 
under which he labored. His spare frame was 
more attenuated than ever, and his face seemed 
almost transparent. His patient that morning 
seemed to sleep with less distress showing in quiv- 
ering features and tossing, restless limbs. 

Captain Halevy looked in through the door of 
the tiny cabin. 

“Good morning, Father,” said the sailor in a 
whisper. “How is our hero this morning?” 

Father Reville rose and tiptoed to the door. 

“I think we gain a little, Captain,” he said. 
“The poor boy, but for his youth and more than 


262 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


common strength, would have paid with his life 
for that plunge into the sea. You do well to 
speak of him as a hero, Captain. I remember 
his voice as it came to me in the sea through the 
roar of the storm. It was calm and full and 
firm. There was no fear in it.” 

The priest had stepped over the door sill and 
the captain got him by the arm. 

“Father,” he said, “this poor fellow has been 
much in my thoughts. What he did that night is 
a thing a man cannot easily forget. When I saw 
you lifted from the deck and carried out into the 
darkness, my heart sank, and then he left my side 
and went over the rail after you, into the black 
desolation, without a pause to think how minute 
was the chance of success. It was an astounding 
thing. Do you know, Father Reville, I have fol- 
lowed the sea for a great many years and have 
had the honor of serving my King on the field of 
battle, but that was an act of daring beyond any 
I have ever seen. It is more like the splendid folly 
of which we read in the old days of chivalry, when 
the good knights bound themselves to care nothing 
for life as against the call of honor and the pos- 
sibility of service.” 

For a few minutes the priest was silent and 
then he replied: 

“Captain, I have been on my Father’s business 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


263 


among the red men of America for many years, 
and I have never known another Indian like this 
man. It is true that the race has some noble at- 
tributes but they are more like the nobilities of all 
savage peoples whom I have so far encountered. 
Their spirit of sacrifice is tainted with pride. They 
endure not for another but for their own glory, 
and while they have these generous feelings, which 
I have no doubt a sympathetic civilization might 
cultivate into great traits, they lack the gentle 
graces that crop out so often in the conduct of 
this boy. Have you ever noted, Captain, how this 
Indian laughs?” 

“Aye,” said the captain. “He laughs easily, 
and I think that very laughter of his, which is 
so merry and so true, is what has won for him 
the hearts of our sailors. Surely, I never before 
saw seamen so taken with one of an alien race.” 

Father Reville sighed a little and looked over 
his shoulder at the face of the slumbering man. 
Captain Halevy drew him gently out on the deck. 

“Come, Father,” he said, “you must have a lit- 
tle rest. I shall call Jules to watch by his side, 
for he sleeps now, and you come with me up 
above and let’s take a turn under the open sky. 
You haven’t seen it these many days.” 

The priest glanced back at his patient. For a 
second he hesitated, and then, as Jules came run- 


264 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


ning forward, he nodded and accompanied Cap- 
tain Haleyy up the companion ladder. The cap- 
tain drew out an easy chair for him and set it on 
the deck in the sunshine. The day was clear and 
bracing. The sky was a blue immensity, unflecked 
by floating clouds. The warm sunlight tempered 
the snappy, chilling breeze that came from the 
northern seas. 

“There,” said the captain, as he wrapped a 
rug around the feet of the priest. “Put your head 
back and close your eyes. Breathe in a little of 
this air. It is like wine, full of life. It has the 
snap of the north in it, Father. There is nothing 
like the north to put real life in the air, and the 
life of the air is the life of the blood. Don’t you 
think so, Father?” 

But the priest did not answer. His breast was 
rising and falling gently, and his eyes were closed. 
The crucifix released from his thin, delicate fin- 
gers, slipped gently to the deck beside him. A 
look of satisfaction settled on the face of the 
sailor, and he sat on a coil of rope beside the 
sleeping Jesuit. 

The sun sloped up to the zenith where it seemed 
to hold itself a while, like a gull that soars to rest 
his wings, and then began its decline toward the 
western wave. Still Father Reville slept. Toward 
evening the freshening breeze brought an added 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


265 


chill to the air, and the attentive ship’s master 
procured another rug which he placed over the 
sleeper. 

Suddenly a sweet, bird-like trill floated up from 
the companionway. The priest stirred uneasily. 
Captain Halevy started, a look of inquiry on his 
brow and as he listened the note sounded a sec- 
ond time, and the priest opened his eyes. 

“Ah!” he said, and there was new strength in 
his voice. “That is the voice of the thrush.” 

“The thrush?” There was perplexity in the 
voice of the captain. 

“Yes,” exclaimed the priest, jumping to his 
feet. “ ’Tis an Indian call. I must go down to 
Rushing Water.” 

He hurried down the companion ladder, the 
captain at his heels. Jules looked up, with his 
finger on his lips, as they entered the cabin. 

Quickly Father Reville caught the wrist of the 
sick man with one hand while he laid the other 
on the warrior’s brow. 

“Ha!” he said. “The fever comes again. 
Jules, bring me a bucket of water quickly.” 

The sick man stirred and the priest bent for- 
ward to listen. 

“Humming Bird,” murmured Rushing Water, 
in the Delaware tongue, “Oh, Humming Bird! 


266 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Not here! — Not there! — Where, oh, Humming 
Bird!” 

Suddenly he raised himself on his elbow, his 
eyes wide open now, and glared at Captain Halevy 
who stood at Father Reville’s shoulder. 

“Stop!” he commanded, his voice high and im- 
perative. “Ish-to-ba, stop ! Thou shalt not ! Dog, 
it is the third time!” His right arm was uplifted 
as if it held a tomahawk. 

At a sign from Father Reville, Captain Halevy 
stepped out of the room. The warrior sat bolt 
upright in the berth. 

“Humming Bird!” he cried. “I am Humming 
Bird’s warrior. Where, oh, Humming Bird!” 

Again he raised the thrush pipe. As it died 
away he trembled and sank back on his pillow. 

“Humming Bird!” he cried brokenly. “Not 
here! — Not there! — Where, oh, Humming 
Bird!” 

By now Jules had returned with the bucket of 
cold sea water and Father Reville was applying it 
to the fevered body. Under his ministrations the 
temperature of the sick man slowly went down, 
and again an untroubled sleep came to him. 

The young man’s delirium did not again re- 
turn. He slept peacefully and quietly throughout 
the night. And the next morning when the Father 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 267 

stood beside his hammock, the young man looked 
up at him with sane eyes. 

“Rushing Water is very ill, Father,” he said. 

“My son is better now,” the priest answered. 

With an odd little motion the warrior raised a 
weak hand, then looked at it. 

“No,” he said, “Rushing Water has run his 
course. He is like the river that pours itself into 
the ocean. He is near the ocean.” 

“My son deceives himself,” said the priest. 
“He is stronger. He will be stronger than he 
was before the sickness came upon him.” 

For a minute the young man lay quiet looking 
at him. 

“See, Father,” he said suddenly, again raising 
his hand and thrusting it out toward the priest. 

Father Reville looked at it in astonishment. 

“What is there to see, my son?” he asked. 

“It grows white,” answered the sick man. 

A strange look came into the priest’s eyes. 

“What is this?” he asked. 

“Listen,” said the young man. “When the 
mother of Rushing Water died she gave him 
Manitu’s message. She said that because he was 
selected for a great work for his people, he must 
perform certain rites. He must crush the tumeric 
root and distill the stain and bathe himself in it. 


268 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Should he fail to do this his body would become 
pale, and death would come upon him.” 

“What!” exclaimed the priest, in an intense, 
eager voice. “Tell me of this, my son.” 

“Rushing Water has always obeyed,” was the 
answer. “When he left his people and came down 
the long river in his canoe, each morning he went 
alone into the woods and performed his rites. Be- 
fore he came on board the great ship he gathered 
much tumeric and made such stain, and this he hid 
away. But for many sleeps now he has had no 
stain. See! the words of Outanie come true. 
His skin whitens. The course of Rushing Water 
is run.” 

“And that crystal,” said the priest, bending over 
him and pointing to the cross now visible through 
the opening in the breast of his shirt. “Whence 
came that?” 

“Oh!” said the boy. “The totem of Manitu. 
Outanie put it on Rushing Water’s neck and bade 
him wear it.” 

“Then I, too, as you have seen,” said the priest, 
“wear the totem of Manitu. I am a medicine man 
and a sagamore, and the Great Spirit speaks to 
me in many ways of mystery, and I say to you by 
His voice that you shall not die, but shall live a 
new life.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


“land, ho!” 

Rushing Water’s convalescence was rapid. The 
fever that had resulted from his exposure and 
exhaustion soon yielded to the simple medicaments 
of the Jesuit priest, and the splendid vitality of 
the young man’s body. Father Reville watched 
his recovery with impatience. The priest had a 
great secret to tell this young man, but feared to 
make his disclosure until his patient had sufficient 
strength to bear whatever shock the news might 
carry. Satisfied in this respect at last, Father Re- 
ville began his conversation very quietly: 

“My son is strong again,” he said one morning 
as he sat beside the hammock. 

“Yes,” the warrior answered, “Rushing Water 
is strong; he should be up above at his work and 
not here.” 

“All in good time,” said Father Reville, smiling 
at Rushing Water’s impatience. “Tomorrow you 
may leave your hammock and resume your work, 
but today I have something to tell you.” 

269 


270 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“What is it, Father?” the young man asked 
quietly. 

“On the morrow,” said the priest, “if the wind 
holds true, we shall sail into the harbor of Bor- 
deaux. Does my son wish to stay with the ship 
or to see the country of the white people?” 

“Rushing Water would dwell awhile in the 
woods of the white people,” the young man an- 
swered. 

The Jesuit smiled. “There are still some woods 
in the land of the white people, my son,” he said, 
“but most of the land is great farms, and cities 
with houses built side by side, all crowded to- 
gether. My son would walk many miles in this 
city of Bordeaux without seeing any woods.” 

Rushing Water’s eyes looked puzzled. 

“It would be difficult to follow a trail then,” he 
said, “in this city? Black Robe knows what I 
mean. It would be hard to find a person.” 

“Very hard,” the priest assented. 

“Yet it might be done?” 

“Oh, yes ! It might be done, but what I wish 
to speak to you about is this: You are going into 
a white people’s country. You should not feel 
strange there, for my son is no true Indian. His 
blood is the blood of the white people, his skin 
is the skin of the white people, only a stain kept it 
dark like the skin of an Indian.” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


271 


Rushing Water drew a deep breath. 

“Black Robe means,” he said, speaking very 
slowly, “that I am not an Indian; that — I — am — a 
— white — man ?” 

“It is true, my son,” the priest answered. 

“How can it be?” Rushing Water cried, run- 
ning his hand across his forehead. “I am the son 
of an Indian father and an Indian mother. How 
can my blood be white?” 

“Has not my son known one of the red women 
to take a babe, whose mother had been killed, and 
care for it and nurse it?” asked the priest. “Sup- 
pose an Indian woman should find a white babe 
whose mother and father had been killed, and 
should grow to love it and wish to bring it up 
with all the affectionate care she might bestow 
on her own son? Suppose she feared that if the 
babe grew up with the white skin among the In- 
dians, his happiness and even his life might be en- 
dangered? Would she not stain the child’s skin, 
and would she not teach him, as a means of pre- 
serving his own life, to continue the practice, when 
her loving hands were powerless to aid him 
further?” 

With a quick, shrewd glance Rushing Water 
searched the face of the priest. 

“And this, then, is why my hands have been 


272 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


getting white ?” he asked, raising up his hands 
before him. 

Father Reville nodded. For a long time there 
was silence. “Poor Outanie,” murmured the 
young man at last. 

“What do you say, my son?” asked the priest. 

“I thought of one I had loved who was a red 
woman, Father,” the young man answered. “But 
now,” he added, his eyes brightening, “I think of 
other things. I think of a wonderful world.” 

“With God’s help it is yours to conquer,” said 
the priest smiling. “But listen, my son! You 
will enter this new world almost as helpless as a 
baby. You have been trained in the ways of the 
wilderness, to hunt wild animals and take your 
living from the things that dwell in the woods. 
Now you will go into a world where such knowl- 
edge is of little value. You have strength of body 
and that is a great thing. But you have more, 
you have a mind capable of knowing what the 
wise men of the white race know, of learning to 
read the great books wherein their sagamores of 
the past have preserved the wisdom and traditions 
of ages long gone. Some little I can do to help 
you enrich your mind. It will be but a beginning. 
Most of the work you must do for yourself. 
Listen, my son! In this city of Bordeaux is one 
of the houses of my Order. Let me bring you 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


273 


into that house an Indian and send you forth there- 
from a white man. Let us say nothing to these 
dear friends of ours on board this ship, of our 
discovery, nor indeed let us tell no man. Come 
with me when we land in Bordeaux tomorrow, 
and you shall learn to read and write the language 
of the French people and to speak it, so that when 
you go forth to do your own work the words of 
those among whom you travel shall not be a dark- 
ness in which you can see no meaning.” 

The grateful look in the eyes of Rushing Water 
showed how deeply he appreciated this offer of as- 
sistance. He gladly assented to the plan the priest 
proposed, and during the rest of the day the two 
friends chatted together of plans for the future, 
as Rushing Water lay in his bunk and the old 
priest sat beside him. 

“You are a strange man, Black Robe,” said 
Rushing Water, “sagamore and preacher and 
healer of the sick, carer for the stranger and 
teacher of the ignorant.” 

“We were bidden,” the priest answered with 
a smile, “by a great sagamore and a great saint, 
to be ‘all things to all men.’ I am all that you 
have said, and in addition to this a woodsman 
and a traveler in a far land. It is the pride of 
our Order that such we are. I am willing to be 
anything, — I am upon my Master’s business.” 


274 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


For an instant the old eyes flashed. Rushing 
Water had never seen a warrior boast of his 
prowess, who held his head more proudly than 
the old man at his side. 

Light breezes on the Bay of Biscay were waft- 
ing the Juliette still westward on the following 
morning, when the deep voice of the lookout rang 
out with the glad cry of 

“Land, Ho!” 

“Where away?” came the quick inquiry from 
Captain Halevy. 

“Off the starboard bow,” came the answer from 
the masthead. 

“That would be the Isle d’Oleron if my reckon- 
ing be true,” said Captain Halevy. “Monsieur 
Matisse, we shall bring her head more to the 
south! Within a few hours, Father,” he said, 
turning to the priest cheerfully, “we should be 
land-locked.” 

Rushing Water, still a trifle unsteady on his 
feet, heard the first officer’s sharp order, “Tacks 
and sheets!” and saw his companion haul the 
weather side of the yards aft, as the helm went 
over and the head of the ship came up into the 
wind. He sprang into the shrouds to get a glance 
at this strange land he was now rapidly approach- 
ing. As they drew into the wide jaws of the estu- 
ary into which the Garonne discharges its placid 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


275 


flow, Father Reville keenly watched the face of 
his protege. He saw his glance shift quickly and 
incessantly from one point of interest to another, 
resting now on the yellow sand spit projecting 
into the sea, and now on the little cluster of white 
cottages inside the harbor, where the fishing vil- 
lage of Rovan gleamed in the westering sun 
against the rich summer green of burdened or- 
chards and cultivated fields. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE HAND AND THE HANDKERCHIEF 

The house of Francois Dupont et Fils was a 
well established mercantile house in Bordeaux. 
The original Francois, who had established the 
business, was long since dust in the quiet grave- 
yard of St. Madeleine, and his son, who was his 
first partner, was now a very ancient gentleman, 
living comfortably on the profits of a long mer- 
cantile career, and seldom visiting the quaint old 
business quarters in which his grandsons were en- 
ergetically prosecuting the ancestral enterprise. 

In the beginning this concern dealt in Oriental 
commodities carried from the East in the bottoms 
of the enterprising Genoese and Venetians, and 
trans-shippedat these Adriatic ports for Bordeaux. 
As the American trade became profitable, the 
astute descendants of old Frangois turned their 
eyes to the westward, and they soon were leaders 
in the trade in American furs. Their counting 
house faced the bustling Rue St. Louis in the heart 
of the business quarter of the city. They were in 
a quaint old gabled house, with time-stained walls 
276 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


277 


and great square windows, each composed of small 
squares of glass. Through these windows might 
be seen heaps of beautiful furs, the pelts of beaver, 
otter, lynx, silver fox, mink and buffalo, while 
here and there the tawny skin of the tiger was 
hung as a reminder of the original source of the 
firm’s commodities. The barred doors were open 
to admit the air, for the spring day was unduly 
warm, and bright sunshine lay in bars across the 
bare, brown floor. A great oaken counter, almost 
black from age, ran the full width of the office. 
Behind this were high desks of the same material, 
at which the ink-stained clerks sat, some of them 
bending over huge ledgers, while others were busy 
with great heaps of invoices and bills of lading. 
In the wareroom, back of the office, workmen 
were busy, softly beating stretched skins with 
padded mallets. 

In one corner of the counting room, at a square 
desk, sat Monsieur Gabriel Dupont, the present 
head of the house. His outer aspect was eloquent 
of prosperity. The bald and shining poll, the 
small, shrewd eyes, the rubicund cheeks and tripli- 
cate chin bespoke a life of rich food, and Mon- 
sieur Gabriel’s clothing, with costly lace at throat 
and cuffs, and gold-buckled shoes indicated the 
man of wealth. 

It was into this office that Father Reville, Jesuit 


278 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


missionary, recently returned from America, 
walked one morning with Rushing Water. He 
was no longer Rushing Water, however. In 
adopting the new faith and assuming his rightful 
role of a white man, he had chosen to bear the 
name of his benefactor, and he came forth into the 
world, after nine months of study under the 
Jesuits, as Elan Reville. 

Monsieur Gabriel looked at him with interest, 
for he made a distinguished figure, with his hair, 
brown now that the stained bear grease was no 
longer upon it, tied with a ribbon at the back of 
his head, his quiet, brown suit cut to fit his lean, 
lithe frame, and his silver shoe buckles brightly 
polished. 

“Ah !” said the merchant, advancing to welcome 
the two visitors. “Father Reville, you are wel- 
come indeed. We have seen little of you since 
your return from the wilderness.” 

“I have been busy,” the priest answered. “But 
my old friend Gabriel seems to have borne my 
absence remarkably well. Life has gone well with 
him?” 

“Not badly, not badly, Father,” said the mer- 
chant. “As you may see, the years have put 
plenty of flesh on my bones, although they have 
been less generous with my old school-mate.” 

“One of my calling,” the priest answered with 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


279 


a smile, “has little need for much flesh, Gabriel. 
It was sometimes hard enough for me to get this 
poor bag of bones transported without wishing 
to add to the burden of my porters. But the Lord 
blesses each of us in the way best suited to us. 
How is Madame Dupont, and how are the chil- 
dren?” 

“Most prosperous, Father,” the merchant an- 
swered, “and glad they will be when you get time 
to visit our home. But come in and be seated, 
you and your friend!” 

He bustled about to set chairs for them. When 
they had seated themselves, the priest said: 

“Well, Gabriel, I have a favor to ask of you. 
This is a namesake of mine, Monsieur Elan Re- 
ville, who has been in America. He has been a 
hunter and trader and I think might be of some 
service to your business. At any rate, my friend, 
I want you to give him a chance.” 

Monsieur Gabriel looked the stranger over 
shrewdly. 

“Ah! So you have been a hunter?” he said. 

“Here! — he picked up a skin from a great pile 
from beside his desk, “What pelt is that?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Elan promptly. 

Monsieur Gabriel beamed with approval. 

“Of course, you would not know,” he said, 
“that is not an American skin, at least not a North 


28 o 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


American skin; that is a puma pelt from the south. 
But this one; you know this one?” 

Elan smiled. “Very well,” he said, “that is 
beaver.” 

“Right. And this?” 

“Black bear.” 

“Quite right. And this one?” 

“Wolf.” 

“And this great rug?” 

“The pelt of the buffalo.” 

“Very well, very well!” commended the mer- 
chant. 

“Now what do you know about curing these 
pelts?” 

Elan rapidly explained to him the Indian 
method. 

“That is very good, very good indeed!” com- 
mended the merchant. “I think you can be very 
useful to us. Father, the pleasure of serving you 
in this matter is increased by the knowledge that 
such service will be quite profitable to me. Mon- 
sieur Reville may start in tomorrow morning at 
eight o’clock. Ho, Monsieur Bientot, come 
hither!” 

From the room in the rear a little old man in 
an apron, with a padded mallet in his hand, ap- 
peared. 

“This, Monsieur,” said Gabriel, turning to 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


281 


Elan, “is our foreman. You will report to him 
tomorrow. Bientot, this young man will join us 
in your room. He has been telling me of the In- 
dian method of curing skins, and there are some 
features which we do not practise. It would be 
well to try them out.” 

Monsieur Bientot nodded and grinned, and re- 
tired to his workroom. 

Father Reville and Elan sat a little longer with 
the head of the house, Elan quiet and listening, 
while the two old friends exchanged remi- 
niscences. 

Thus was the child of the wilderness installed 
in the house of Frangois Dupont et Fils. 

Handling pelts was a familiar occupation and 
he soon became proficient. From friendship for 
Father Reville and from interest in Elan’s per- 
sonality, Monsieur Gabriel bestowed a great deal 
of attention upon him, and in fitting out expedi- 
tions for America the merchant found his advice 
quite valuable. 

Meanwhile, Elan, at the suggestion of his 
friend, left the house of the Jesuits, and rented a 
small room from a widow whose house was near 
the office. When not engaged in his work, he wan- 
dered about the streets continually, his quick eyes 
shifting from face to face as he searched in the 
multitude. He attracted considerable attention 


282 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


among the townspeople, although he was quite un- 
conscious of it. Notwithstanding his present oc- 
cupation, his step was the step of the outdoor man, 
free, sure and strong, and under the workman’s 
blouse which he now wore was a frame whose 
every line bespoke agility and strength. 

The spring and summer went by and the autumn 
came. One September morning, as he walked vig- 
orously from his quarters to his work, he passed 
two white-robed Sisters in the street. Behind 
them, arm in arm and two by two, walked half a 
dozen young girls. As they passed him the young 
man stopped and gazed with a quick, searching 
glance at one of the girls. He recognized in- 
stantly the flashing features of Valerie. As he 
looked at her she lifted her eyes and their glances 
met. A fleeting, fugitive sense of recollection was 
mirrored in the girl’s eyes and the color came into 
her cheeks, then she lowered her glance and passed 
on with her companions. 

For a few minutes Elan stood motionless. Then 
he turned and quietly followed them. They 
walked to a street on the outskirts of the town 
and stopped before an iron gate set in a high stone 
wall. One of the religieuse beat on the door with 
the ponderous brass knocker. In a minute the 
postern was opened and the Sisters and their 
charges disappeared within. Elan noted the loca- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 283 

tion of the building, and with quick stride re- 
traced his steps. 

The next morning the young man got out of 
bed before dawn and quickly dressed himself. 
Hurrying out of the house into the still dark street, 
he made his way to the walled enclosure. Then 
as the sky in the east became rosy with the flush 
of the day, he added to the warbling of the native 
birds a new note, trilling forth on the fresh air 
of the fragrant morning the call of the American 
wood thrush. Thrice he called and at a window, 
whose upper part just showed above the parapet 
of the wall, he saw the outlines of a small white 
hand, and caught the flutter of a lace handker- 
chief. 


CHAPTER XXX 


AN INDIAN ON THE WALL 

Mother Scholasticus, Superior of the Con- 
vent School of Notre Dame de Bordeaux, smiled 
as she heard a gay, ringing laugh from the dor- 
mitory. 

“Sister,” she said to Sister Mathilde, “is that 
Valerie laughing?” 

“Yes, Mother,” replied little Sister Mathilde. 
“She laughs quite frequently now. The child has 
quite lost that air of sadness that sat so poorly 
upon her.” 

“ ’Tis well,” said the Mother Superior, “I was 
beginning to fear for her health, although Dr. 
Mattieu assures me that she is physically sound.” 

“The humors of young ladies are strange, 
Mother,” said Sister Mathilde, with a little sigh. 

Just then the dormitory door opened and the 
Sisters listened to the gay chatter of the girls. 

“You do, Valerie, you do !” cried one voice. 

“No, no I” answered Valerie. “I am sure I do 
not.” 


284 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 285 

“Oh, yes,” insisted the voice, “but you do in 
the early dawn!” 

“Let her have her way,” chimed in a third 
voice. “You must not spoil our little romance. 
Why, we haven’t had anything here so perfectly 
thrilling in months. Just think of it, a beautiful 
somnambulist.” 

Again came Valerie’s laughing protest. 

“But only this morning,” insisted the first voice, 
“you got up just before daybreak!” 

“Hush, foolish,” said Valerie. 

“But you did,” the girl insisted, “and the other 
morning — it is nearly a week ago — I heard you 
stirring and it awakened me. Then I saw you 
rise like a white ghost out of your bed and glide 
to the window, and you raised your hand so high 
and held it there with your handkerchief flut- 
tering.” 

A chorus of delighted “Ah’s” and “Oh’s” greet- 
ed this narrative, and one of the girls exclaimed: 

“Isn’t it splendid? Please don’t stop it, Va- 
lerie!” 

But the two Sisters in the outer room exchanged 
glances, and a little frown of perplexity wrinkled 
slightly the gentle brow of the Mother Superior. 

“That is rather strange, Sister,” she said to 
Sister Mathilde. 

“Quite strange,” replied Sister Mathilde. 


286 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


The Mother Superior reached up and pulled a 
tasseled cord and the clanging of a bell in the 
distant court came faintly to them. Within a few 
minutes old Mathias, the watchman, stood before 
her, rumpling his cap in his gnarled old hands. 

“Mathias,” said the Mother, “are the windows 
of the dormitory visible from the road?” 

“From the far side, Mother,” answered the old 
man. “The upper part of the pane is just ap- 
parent above the wall.” 

“Have you noticed anything strange in the 
road, Mathias, about daybreak?” 

“No, Mother, but I could not well do so for I 
make my last round outside about half an hour 
before the dawn,” he answered. 

“H’m!” The Mother Superior laid a thought- 
ful finger upon her lips. “Mathias,” she said at 
last after a minute of reverie, “tomorrow let your 
last round be about daybreak, and report to me 
anything you may see?” 

When Valerie wakened before the dawn the 
following morning, she crept from her bed very 
softly and, before she went to the window, bent 
over the figure of the telltale companion of the 
previous day to assure herself that that young 
lady was fast asleep. Then with her little lace 
handkerchief in her hand she hastened to the win- 
dow. As she did so the wood thrush call rose 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


287 


on the air outside. Valerie raised her hand high 
and waved the little patch of lace, she looked out 
at the high, stone wall behind which she knew 
Elan must be standing. 

Even as she gazed she gave a little start and 
placed her hand over her heart. A hand had ap- 
peared grasping the coping stones of the wall. 
The girl gently opened the lattice and leaned over 
the sill. A moccasined foot and a leg in a fringed 
deerskin leggin were now flung over the parapet, 
and an instant later Elan in the habiliments of 
the wilderness, was outlined against the paling 
east. He had hardly gained an upright position, 
however, when the voice of old Mathias rose an- 
grily from the street outside. Instantly Elan’s 
body disappeared from her view. An irrepressi- 
ble scream burst from her, and a few minutes later 
a score of girls were gathered round a sobbing lit- 
tle figure crouched by the window. 

Meanwhile, evidences of excitement elsewhere 
were audible. The gate bell was pealing in the 
dormitory of the Sisters, and soon the slippered 
feet of the good religieuses could be heard patter- 
ing on the floor, then the girls heard Mathias’ 
voice, quick and eager with excitement. Half an 
hour later Valerie was summoned to the office. 
Mother Scholasticus sat at her desk wearing an 
unwonted look of severity. 


288 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“What is this, my child she asked. “Mathias 
reports that an American Indian made some bird- 
like signal from the street and that you waved 
him a signal from your window. He says this In- 
dian was so emboldened that he climbed to the 
top of our wall. , ’ 

“Was he hurt, Mother?” Valerie asked. 

“No, he was not hurt. When Mathias called 
to him he clambered quickly down and disap- 
peared before the watch could apprehend him. 
But what means this, Valerie? How can it be 
that you are carrying on such a clandestine cor- 
respondence with a savage man?” 

Valerie hung her head and was silent. 

“Come, tell me,” the Mother asked again in 
a more kindly tone. “What is it, my girl? Where 
did you meet this man?” 

Valerie’s only answer was to throw herself upon 
the breast of the Mother Superior and break into 
a torrent of sobs. 

“There, there!” said the Mother, affectionately 
patting the bent, chestnut head. “There, there! 
We shall soon get over this folly, but we can- 
not stay here longer, little lady. Tomorrow we 
shall go to the house of our Order at Tours. 
Whatever this is, it must cease.” 

When Elan appeared at the wall next morning 
and sounded his bird call, there was no flutter of 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


289 


white behind the distant window pane, nor on the 
following morning did the signal answer his. For 
a week he persevered, then he went no more to 
the convent of Notre Dame de Bordeaux. 

Indeed, his visits would have had to cease in any 
event, as Monsieur Gabriel had work of a more 
important character than beating oil out of pelts 
with padded mallets for his newest employee. It 
was the day after Elan’s last visit to the convent 
when the young man was summoned to the outer 
office. 

“Be seated, Monsieur Reville,” said his em- 
ployer, indicating a vacant chair in front of the 
desk. “We must have a little talk together. You 
know the North American woods. Do you know 
the country of the St. Lawrence?” 

“I know where it is,” Elan answered, “al- 
though I have never hunted in the woods of the 
great river. It is, however, a country much like 
that in which I have hunted.” 

“Ah, that is well,” answered Gabriel. “We 
have a ship, the St. Laurent, which we are equip- 
ping for a voyage up the St. Lawrence. Will you 
take charge of the expedition?” 

Elan assented instantly. 

For the next few weeks he was busy superin- 
tending the equipment of the vessel and early in 
the fourth week he set sail. The vessel was fast 


290 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


and the wind favored and within two months they 
came to anchor before Quebec. Elan, once 
more in the wilderness, donned the garments to 
which he was accustomed, and gathering a small 
band of Indian hunters, set forth on his expedi- 
tion. It was enormously successful. Soon the 
holds of the St. Laurent were packed with the 
rich spoil of the woods, and the young chief of 
the expedition was satisfied to give directions for 
the homeward voyage. 

Monsieur Gabriel himself greeted him at the 
dock and warmly welcomed him home. The de- 
light of the merchant was greatly increased when 
he looked over the vessel’s manifest and noted 
the quantity and variety of the skins in her cargo. 

“Wonderful, Monsieur Reville !” he cried, slap- 
ping Elan on the back. “ ’Tis the most prosperous 
voyage we ever had. Now to get the stuff ashore 
and then after a little while you shall go up for 
another priceless load, eh, my son?” 

But Elan shook his head. “Monsieur is very 
kind to me,” he said, “but I shall not go back to 
the St. Lawrence country.” 

“Ah!” Monsieur Gabriel looked at him in sur- 
prise. “But Monsieur Reville, you are of little 
value to me in the curing room but of great value, 
which I shall pay, in the field, and yet you would 
stay in the curing room?” 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


291 


“No, Monsieur,” Elan shook his head. “Not 
in the curing room either, Monsieur Gabriel. I 
am going to America.” 

“And where in America?” 

“I am going to New Orleans.” 

“Ah!” Monsieur Gabriel cried thoughtfully, 
“but perhaps we could make arrangements? 
Would you be our factor in New Orleans if we 
should open a house in that city? Could that be 
done, Monsieur Reville?” 

“I would gladly serve you,” Elan answered 
warmly. 

Monsieur Gabriel rubbed his hands. “Very 
well, very well! I shall have to discuss it with 
my brothers and my father and my grandfather, 
but in these matters they lean much on my judg- 
ment. I think it may be arranged, Monsieur 
Reville.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


MY WARRIOR 

The August evening light fell brightly on the 
great square in New Orleans, known as the Place 
d’Armes, beneath whose bordering shade trees 
women fluttered in white gowns, little children 
romped, negro slaves sauntered, chattering and 
laughing with shining, black faces and flashing 
white teeth, and citizens in lace cuffs and collars, 
with long back coats, silken breeches and stock- 
ings, and buckled shoes, took the evening air. 
There was a vivacity, wholly French, in the scene. 
Gay laughter rang out here and there, sometimes 
in the shrill laughter of children, sometimes the 
clear contralto of young women, sometimes the 
deeper, harsher merriment of men. The fringed 
deerskin garments of couriers and hunters mingled 
with the more conventional garb of the city men. 
An occasional Indian, naked save for breech clout 
and feathered leggings, stood under a tree, dark, 
silent, with dull eyes and impassive features. 

Down each side of the square ran a low, rec- 
tangular building, visible beneath the shade trees. 

292 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


293 


In front of these buildings soldiers were gather- 
ing, with pale blue coats faced in buff and glitter- 
ing with gilt buttons and braid. They wore tri- 
angular hats with white cockades, centered with 
the lilies of France. Broad, white bandoliers 
crossed on their breasts and held their knapsacks 
upon their shoulders. A clear bugle note sang 
on the air, and the musicians, in scarlet coats, 
began to form ranks. The sun blazed on their 
instruments of brass. The eyes of the spectators 
danced as the long, high roll of the kettle drums, 
and the clear, piercing music of the fifes struck on 
their ears. Then came the measured tread of 
marching men, as the files moved out on the es- 
planade, the gorgeous band in front, the fifes 
shrilling, the kettle drums in full rat-a-tat. They 
were out now in the sun-swept field, long lines of 
bayonets flashing like serpents of silver, and a 
cloud of golden fire in advance where the sun 
broke in a shower of golden reflections upon the 
polished instruments of the bandsmen. Suddenly 
these instruments were raised and the crashing 
music of the brasses blared out. Away down the 
esplanade swept the battalion. A group of officers 
with plumed chapeaux and golden epaulettes on 
their shoulders, had ridden out to the center of 
the square where they reined their horses grace- 
fully and waited. 


294 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


Elan Reville noticed the colonel, a laughing 
soldier, with a slender figure, clear, bold eyes 
under level brows and a slight mustache above 
merry lips, who rode like a centaur. Although 
he did not know it, he himself was an object of 
interest to the military men. 

“You don’t mean it, Ribaud,” said Colonel de 
Courcey, as he keenly surveyed the dark and soli- 
tary figure on the steps of the church. 

“Yes, my colonel, ’tis surely the new factor,” 
Ribaud answered. “I camped with him and hunt- 
ed with him up the Missouri. He is a brave and 
gallant fellow.” 

A quick gleam of pleasure flashed in the eyes 
of the colonel. “We can’t have too many such 
in our company here,” he said. “He does not 
seem to love the city over well?” 

“No,” said Lieutenant Ribaud. “He is sel- 
dom in town except when there is a ship to load. 
He spends most of his time in the field.” 

“Pray, Lieutenant, present my compliments to 
him and say that Colonel de Courcey will be hon- 
ored if he will assist him in the review, and join 
us at dinner this evening.” 

Lieutenant Ribaud spurred his horse across the 
field, pausing in front of the church of St. Louis, 
upon whose steps Elan stood observing the ma- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


295 

neuvers. He courteously repeated his superior’s 
invitation. 

Elan nodded in assent and followed Ribaud’s 
horse toward the reviewing party. De Courcey 
galloped forward to meet them, and in front of 
Elan sprang to the ground. His outstretched 
hand clasped that of the young factor, and to- 
gether the two walked back toward the little clus- 
ter of mounted officers, de Courcey leading his 
steed by the bridle. 

“So, Monsieur is from Bordeaux?” de Courcey 
said, after the review and when the officers were 
seated at mess. 

The young man nodded. 

“They tell me,” said the officer, “that the house 
of M. Dupont is fortunate in its factor. Hitherto, 
only the ships of our good friend Rene de Boncour 
came to New Orleans for furs, but now they say 
Rene is hard put to it to load as big a cargo as 
that which goes into the Dupont ships.” 

“Monsieur de Boncour is also of Bordeaux?” 
said Elan. 

“Aye, and he is a good little fellow,” de Cour- 
cey answered. “Although he has not met you I 
have heard him speak very well of you. There is 
no mean jealousy in Rene, Monsieur.” 

Elan smiled quietly. “I should be glad to meet 
M. de Boncour,” he said. 


2 96 THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“Then, by Jove, you shall,” answered de Cour- 
cey. “The evening is young, let us do ourselves 
the honor of calling upon Madame de Boncour 
and her family.” 

After the repast de Courcey, Ribaud and Elan 
walked over to the de Boncour place. Rene greet- 
ed them warmly at the door and shook hands with 
Elan most graciously. 

“Ah, mother,” he called, as Madame de Bon- 
cour advanced smiling to greet the visitors. “This 
is the young gentleman from Bordeaux who has 
kept himself so remote from us. Let him be wel- 
comed, mother, so that he shall not hide himself 
in the woods.” 

“You shall have cause to complain no more,” 
said Elan smiling, as he shook hands with Va- 
lerie’s mother. “If I have permission I shall 
come often.” 

“And never too often,” Madame de Boncour 
replied. “We love to hear of Bordeaux. Our lit- 
tle girl was at school there, you know.” 

Elan did not answer, but Rene took up the 
thread of conversation. 

“Aye, we sent her there to finish her education 
with the good Sisters,” he said. “A great little 
girl is our Valerie, Monsieur Reville, and it fills 
our heart with joy that she so soon is to return to 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


297 

Elan looked up quickly. “Mademoiselle de 
Boncour is to return soon, then?” he inquired. 

“Truly,” answered de Boncour. “A month 
hence she sets sail, coming back in the Marie 
Celeste. God prosper the voyage ! Before 
the winter closes down she should be in our 
arms.” 

Thereafter Elan was a frequent visitor at the 
de Boncour home. In the fur business in which 
they were engaged the men found a subject of 
much interest for discussion, and Rene soon be- 
came very fond of the tall young hunter who rep- 
resented his rivals. 

Raoul, who was about Elan’s own age, declared 
him to be a prince of good companions, and Gas- 
pare, now on the verge of young manhood, was 
devoted to the handsome young hunter who could 
teach him so much of the ways of the wood. 
Madame de Boncour, too, had a quick and affec- 
tionate heart which soon enveloped Elan. 

The days passed quickly until the new year 
came. On the morning of its feast day an Indian 
hunter reported to Rene de Boncour that the 
Marie Celeste was beating her way up the broad 
river, having entered the delta. That night Elan 
disappeared. 

On board Captain Halevy’s good ship, a few 
mornings later, Valerie de Boncour awoke before 


298 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


daylight. Her heart was full of the excitement 
of the home-coming and she hurried on deck to 
survey the dark but familiar shores. Just as the 
morning dawned she gave a start and a cry of 
pleasure. From the dark bank of the eastern 
shore came clear and high the call of the wood 
thrush. She tried to pierce the gloom on the river 
but could see nothing, nor was the helmsman to 
whom she next appealed able to discover any sign 
of a living thing in the shadow of the bank. The 
Marie Celeste slowly fought the current, tacking 
back and forth, and at last came to anchor off the 
de Boncour levee. 

Before the iron hook dropped into the water, 
de Boncour’s barge was alongside, and an instant 
later Valerie was being embraced by father and 
mother and delighted brothers. Along the shore 
were friends of her childhood, all eager to wel- 
come her. Indeed, the day was one of bewilder- 
ing welcomes and she soon found that the night 
was to be turned also into a festival of joy for her 
home-coming. 

De Boncour’s parlors had been cleared for a 
ball, which the trader was to give in honor of 
Valerie’s arrival. So after an early tea and a 
brief nap the girl awoke to find her home crowd- 
ed with the good citizens of New Orleans and 
their wives and daughters, among whose gay gar- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


299 

ments sparkled the gold epaulettes of the mili- 
tary officers. 

Clothed by her loving mother and adoring ne- 
gro maid, Valerie was a vision of beauty as she 
entered the ballroom. As the queenly little figure 
advanced on the arm of Colonel de Courcey, a 
murmur of admiration arose from the young 
men. Valerie was smiling shyly but her glance 
shifted from face to face as if she was seeking 
somebody. The musicians began to play and the 
dancers formed in the minuet. As they stepped 
through its stately, graceful figures the voice of 
the negro butler was heard in the hall announcing: 

“Monsieur Elan Reville!” 

A second or two later Elan entered the ball- 
room. He was clothed in black satin with a huge 
ruffle of white lace at his throat and at his cuffs. 
His curly hair drawn back and tied with a rib- 
bon, and powdered, after the fashion of the day, 
shone white against the deep weather-tan of his 
countenance. 

As Valerie faced the door her glance fell upon 
him and she stood motionless, her eyes wide and 
the color in her cheeks coming and going. He 
advanced a step into the room and held out his 
hands. 

As if drawn by a power invisible and irresistible, 
the girl moved toward him. The dancers paused 


3 00 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


in surprise, de Courcey turning with a look of 
swift and searching inquiry toward the newcomer. 
The music ended raggedly, a surprised violinist 
stopping with his bow half drawn, and a harper 
dropping his hand from the still vibrating string. 
Valerie’s cheeks glowed and gleamed, now the 
color of the royal rose, now the hue of the delicate 
lily. The lace at her bosom rose and fell. Her 
wide eyes were startled, incredulous, glowing with 
a great hope that fought with unbelief. She 
searched his face, examining each feature. He 
stood, smiling a little, his hands toward her. 

“Speak!” 

Her tone was tense, eager; her word a com- 
mand and an entreaty. 

His voice, deep and clear, answered her: 

“Humming Bird!” 

The unbelief in her eyes died; the hope blazed 
high. 

“You — you are ?” The tremulous voice 

broke. 

“Elan,” he answered. 

Her arms went out and she swayed toward him. 
Like a golden peal of pure joy her voice rang: 

“My Warrior!” 



? 


“You — you are 


My Warrior” 











































































































CHAPTER XXXII 


EYES THAT LOOKED BACK 

The great reception hall of the Popes, the splen- 
did sala regia , with its pontifical throne and its 
priceless tapestries, seemed vast and lonely, al- 
though it was by no means untenanted. It took 
the throngs who attended the state audiences to 
fill that magnificent corridor; the few who now 
crossed its floor seemed lost in it. They were pil- 
grims going to or coming from the great Vatican 
Chapels in front of whose vestibules, guarding the 
Sistine on one hand and the Pauline on the other, 
stood two huge Swiss in the ancient uniform Mi- 
chael Angelo had designed for their corps. Noble 
guards in black velvet ceremoniously saluted the 
Swiss as they passed. Black-robed ecclesiastics on 
business bent, went back and forth. A Cardinal 
in his red garments stepped from the vestibule of 
the Pauline chapel, and then paused with a smile 
of greeting, as an aged priest approached him. 

“Ah, Father Reville,” he said, “how prospers 
the right arm of the faith? Can the Holy Father 
be of help to the brethren of Ignatius?” 

301 


302 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


“No, I came not to the Vatican on business of 
the Society, Monsignor,” answered Father Re- 
ville. “I am on my way to the library, where I 
have been transcribing some of the parchments of 
the Liber P ontificalis .” 

“Soldier and student by turns, but always 
Saint!” the Cardinal said graciously. “Well, I 
am for the closet of his Holiness, so in God’s 
keeping I leave you, Father.” 

With a smile the old man thanked him and he 
made his way toward the great staircase. 

Father Reville was slightly more bent and a 
few more fine lines wrinkled his countenance. His 
black cassock hung loosely on his spare frame. 
It was the same simple robe he had ever worn, for 
no insignia marks the General of the Jesuits. His 
step was a trifle hesitant but his eyes were un- 
dimmed. As the day was warm he held his biretta 
in his hand, leaving uncovered the tonsured crown 
and the white hair that fell to his shoulders. 

With the slightly hesitant step he walked down 
the sala regia or vast staircase that endured to 
tell the world that once there lived and dreamed 
a genius called Bernini. Crossing the court with 
its magnificent triple colonnade, he made his way 
to the long library gallery. All who passed him 
gazed with affection at the old man; some stopped 
him to ask his benediction. He paused at an al- 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


303 


cove, barred by a gate at one end and lighted by 
a rose window at the other. Opening the gate he 
entered this nook. There was a reading table 
under the window, and a chair. The enclosing 
partitions were shelved, and each shelf held a 
roll of age-yellow parchment. Carefully selecting 
one of these, Father Reville had it placed on the 
table by an attendant. Bowing his thanks to the 
man, the priest laid a writing tablet beside the 
parchment, wiped a pair of spectacles, and, placing 
these on the bridge of his nose, seated himself. 
The Latin text on the vellum scroll was faded 
and dim. It was lettered in the beautifully exe- 
cuted characters of the ancient monastic engross- 
ing, but many of the words had almost vanished 
and some were altogether lost. With a goose 
quill, dipped frequently in the inkhorn on his 
table, Father Reville laboriously transcribed the 
record on his writing pad. 

“Alexander III, presently and for some short 
time, held possession of a crystal rood,” the an- 
cient narrative ran. “It was a gift to him while 
yet he was Archbishop of Siena from the jewel- 
workers’ craft of that See. His Holiness, al- 
though austere in his tastes, and little given to 
adornments, prized this crystal highly. The tree 
of the cross was but of the length of a finger, still 
the crystal was of great luster and the carving was 


3°4 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


most cunningly executed. The features of the 
Christ were nobly made, His Divine and cruelly 
lacerated figure hung from the Transverse, elo- 
quent of his sacrifice, as” — here the words were 
missing from the parchment — “the skill of a mas- 
ter craftsman. One blemish only the crystal had, 
yet, so strange are the ways of God, it added to 
the effect of the craftsman’s work, although it 
seemed as if he did not so intend. Near where the 
nail pierced the sacred feet, a dull, reddish blemish 
marred the transparent shaft. It passed through 
the feet, and the pillar, a straight spear, which 
looked like unto the rust of the nail. But when 
one closely looked it was plain that this was acci- 
dental and not the design of the craftsman, for the 
carved head of the nail was not truly placed on the 
blemish but a little to the side. This wonderful 
jewel was bestowed by Alexander upon one Philip 
of Exeter, a knight of Syria, serving in the train 
of Baldwin, of Jerusalem, the King, as a reward 
for a deed of high daring and chivalry, whom his 
Holiness in the bestowal dubbed the bravest of 
the brave, and thus blessed him and his house.” 

(Then followed the blessing Alexander had be- 
stowed on the young soldier.) 

“The crystal rood!” he murmured. “A fin- 
ger’s length — yes, it would measure so. And the 
strange blemish, the blood mark, or rust mark! 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


305 


Ah, what was it the good ship captain said of 
that plunge into the black, tempest-tortured deep ? 
Ah, yes; ‘bravest of the brave.’ And Alexander 
dubbed him ‘bravest of the brave.’ ” 

The old priest passed a hand over his eyes. 
The vision of shelved walls, of reading table, and 
the age-yellow parchment dimly marked with 
Latin letters, glowing under the colored light that 
sifted in through the rose window — this was shut 
out. Another scene flashed before him — the rag- 
ged rip of lightning across the storm, the wild 
blackness in which white ghostly crests reared 
themselves, the raging desolation, the dark hand 
stretched forth to save. Then the vision changed; 
there came the radiant night of stars, the follow- 
ing dawn, the glowing day, and the revelation of a 
strong, clear, confident face, dominant over all 
else. 

“Aye, ‘bravest of the brave,’ ” repeated the 
Jesuit, as he let his hand drop from his eyes. 
“Truly, the ways of God are wonderful!” 

His glance rested on the parchment. 

“ ‘Though the generations be a score or a hun- 
dred.’ Surely, it is as thou didst say, splendid 
Alexander. Surely in thy blessing was the might 
of God. For behold, ’tis not alone benediction 
but prophecy that marks this parchment! ‘Upon 
thee be the blessing of our Father, the Almighty 


3°6 


THE CRYSTAL ROOD 


God, and his Son, the gentle and brave Christ, our 
Saviour, and the Holy Ghost, who commissioned 
us through the Sainted Peter; upon thee, bravest 
of the brave, and thy son and thy son’s son, for- 
ever!’” 


THE END 









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